


Träumerei

by shadowofrazia



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Classical Music, F/M, M/M, Magic Revealed, Minor Character Death, Modern Era, Piano
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 18:32:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 37,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowofrazia/pseuds/shadowofrazia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s sometime after Freya’s death that Merlin makes the online dating profile. Really, it’s all Gwen’s fault: she’d been pressuring him to get himself out there for ages now. Merlin figures online dating counts well enough. When Merlin meets <i>Arthur_Pendragon</i>, history teacher and general prat from Camelot, online, his magic goes a bit haywire. </p><p>And that is ultimately how Merlin ends up accompanying Mordred, a six year old sorcerer with a knack for Beethoven, during a Christmas piano recital. When Merlin meets Arthur Penn, history teacher and general prat, face to face, he has no idea just how much his life is about to change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time I’ve ever actively participated in a fandom, and it was surprisingly hard. I had a lot of fun, and it’s also the most I’ve ever written for anything, so thanks for that. Thanks to for hosting this. Thanks to [diana065](http://diana065.livejournal.com/) and [sschapstickk](http://sschapstickk.livejournal.%20com/) for betaing, and to everyone in the PL Chat for letting me panic at them at all hours of the night.
> 
> It would be super lame of me not to thank [madnessisreal](http://madnessisreal.livejournal.com/) for agreeing to be my (wonderful!) artist despite our ridiculous (13 hour, I think?) time difference. The masterpost for her art can be found [here.](http://madnessisreal.livejournal.com/49438.html)

This was a stupid idea. This was an awful idea.

Merlin stares at the words at the top of his screen and groans. This was a terrible idea, and he kind of hates Gwen for suggesting it. She’d thought he was lonely. He’s not lonely; just sad. He should be allowed to be sad.

Begrudgingly, he checks the Interested In: ‘Women’ box and scrolls to the bottom of the page. He hovers hesitantly over the next button before scrolling back to the Interested In section and checking ‘men’ too.  Before he has enough time to change his mind, he presses the next button. It takes all of three minutes for him to submit the rest of his information. This really wasn't a good idea.

"Why is there a fucking questionnaire?" Merlin mutters to himself before going to make himself something to eat. He curls in his computer chair, meal balanced in his lap, and puts on some music because he knows this is going to take forever.

"Did you know you can set it so straight people can't see you?" Merlin says the next day, helping himself to Gwen’s chips. Gwen snorts into her water. "I'm serious! And some people put that they don’t want to be contacted by bisexuals in their ‘about me.’ It's like sixth form all over again."

Gwen laughs, batting Merlin’s hand away from her food. "It'll be good for you, Merlin. You work so hard and you've not seemed yourself after Freya--"

"Can we not talk about Freya, please?" Merlin talks to his hands so he doesn't have to see the pity he knows is on Gwen's face. She's been looking at him like that a lot lately, like he hasn’t got the right to be upset after…. Really, he just wants her to stop. "Gwen, I’m fine. Just—“

"Right, of course. Sorry. I’ve just been worried about you, Merlin," Gwen says. Merlin grimaces at her and hopes it looks enough like a smile.

When he logs onto his computer that night, he has three messages. He closes the tab, and starts his homework. He shouldn't have listened to Gwen.

"You made an online dating account?"

Arthur groans and rubs at his forehead. Morgana's laughing so hard she can barely breathe. Even when her face is red and blotchy, she looks vaguely terrifying. He'd hoped, fleetingly, when Mordred was born that motherhood would make her less scary.

"Are you—Morgana stop. It's not that funny. I just—"

"You were such a ladies man in school; no one would ever expect you to need help meeting people." Morgana chokes down a mouthful of water and, just like that, she's fine. Arthur looks awkwardly at his plate, flushing.

"I actually, um, said I was interested in men on the site?" Arthur says. Morgana looks surprised, and if he weren’t so busy freaking out, Arthur would be proud of himself.

"Men. Right. Does Uther know?" She always calls their father Uther when he's not around. She calls it her teenage rebellion, never mind she's nearly thirty.

"No, but I thought if I was seeing someone, he'd be more likely to, you know, believe me."

"He's not going to be pleased."

"I never said he'd be pleased," Arthur snaps. "He still gets frosty when people mention Mordred's age. And this is different. I’ve graduated."

“He's not going to see it that way and you know it, Arthur," Morgana says, "And I graduated; it was just a semester later than planned." Her haughty look disappears, replaced by one of concern. "Are you alright?"

"I guess. I'm just...confused. Don't people figure this out in their teens? I'm 25, for Christ's sake."

"There's no age limit for confusion, Arthur," Morgana says so sincerely Arthur can’t bring himself to make a sarcastic. And a moment before it gets awkward, she smoothly changes the subject.

When he gets home, Arthur collapses onto his couch. He's relieved to have told Morgana, but even more than last night, it means he can't pretend this isn't real anymore.

" _Fuck_ ,” he mutters, sitting up to switch on his laptop where it’s sitting on the coffee table. It takes a few minutes to warm up before he's able to type in the URL. What was he _thinking_? He finds the ‘delete my account’ button, but exits the tab before he has a chance to click it.

This term has been a small torture for Merlin. People have stopped talking to him about Freya and constantly asking if he’s doing alright, but he can still see the looks they give him when they think he's not paying attention.

But Merlin knows how much energy he used to have, so he tries. He tries not to seem as upset as he is. He pretends he’s over it, like he’s gotten over the fact his girlfriend—and best friend—fucking _died_ seven months ago. Most the time though, he barricades himself in the library or his apartment or the student center and studies so much his grades don’t drop below an A minus, if they drop at all.

Merlin’s flat is too hot when he gets home, and he realizes that in his rush that morning, he'd forgotten to turn down the heat. He waves his hand absentmindedly at the thermostat and wanders into the kitchen to make his dinner. This isolation has forced him to get better at cooking; at least his mother will be pleased.

He works on his assignments on the couch. He rests his textbook on his knees and puts his laptop on the cushion beside him as he works. If he can't be happy, at least he can pass his second year of university. An hour later, Merlin glances up from his textbook and notices his browser is blinking with a new IM. The man in the profile picture is leaning against the wall, looking mildly irritated with whoever’s taking the picture. He looks harmless enough.

 **_Arthur_Pendragon:_ ** _Is your name really Merlin?_

Merlin rolls his eyes at the ceiling. This guy is the fourth person to ask him that today, but at least he’s not sending pictures of his dick or something.

 **_MerlinEmrys:_ ** _No, it’s Ferdinand. Is your name really Arthur Pendragon?_

 **_Arthur_Pendragon:_ ** _Kind of._

 **_MerlinEmrys:_ ** _Kind of?_

Damn it, Gwen. He would attract the ones who think they’re the reincarnation of the historical king of Camelot.

 **_Arthur_Pendragon:_ ** _My name is Arthur, but not Pendragon. My students would have a field day. **Arthur_Pendragon:** Granted, my last name is similar enough they laugh anyway._

 **_MerlinEmrys:_ ** _You have students?_

 **_Arthur_Pendragon:_ ** _I never got an answer._

 **_MerlinEmrys:_ ** _I had weird parents. My dad used to tell me the stories about magic and Merlin while he whittled wooden dragons._

 **_MerlinEmrys:_ ** _Usually, I tell people I’m named after the bird._

 **_Arthur_Pendragon:_ ** _You're named after the wizard, then._

 **_MerlinEmrys:_ ** _It sounds so stupid when you put it that way._

 **_Arthur_Pendragon:_ ** _It couldn't possibly sound any less stupid._

Merlin stares at the screen, astounded. In the back of his mind, he knows he should be furious, or at least annoyed, but instead he finds himself laughing quietly as he types out his response.

 **_MerlinEmrys:_ ** _You’re an arse._

 **_Arthur_Pendragon:_ ** _And you’re terrible at this flirting thing._

 **_MerlinEmrys:_ ** _Says the man who insulted my name._

 **_MerlinEmrys:_ ** _and who’s named himself Arthur Pendragon._

 **_Arthur_Pendragon:_ ** _I’m a history teacher and my name is Arthur. It’s an opportunity that couldn’t be missed._

 **_Arthur_Pendragon:_ ** _And if anyone gets to say something about names, it shouldn’t be the guy who’s named himself MerlinEmrys of all things._

Merlin scowls at his screen and responds:

 **_MerlinEmrys:_ ** _You’re an arse. Parents should be notified their children are being taught by an arse._

 **_Arthur_Pendragon:_ ** _Wow, we really need to get you some lessons on flirting._

Arthur makes Merlin laugh and Merlin stays up too late, gets too close to giving Arthur his number, and goes to bed feeling lighter than usual. He never does get those lessons on flirting.

*

"You look exhausted," Gwen says the moment Merlin walks into the Student Center. Merlin leans against the counter and pours himself a cup of coffee.

"I was up late working on homework." Merlin slowly breathes in the scent of his coffee and avoids Gwen's gaze. "English seemed like a good idea until I actually had to, you know, _do_ things."

"You need to sleep, Merlin," Gwen says. "Lance called last night."

"Your boyfriend in Camelot?” Merlin had met Lance exactly three times. The first time, kind of, was when he'd walked into Gwen's flat and seen Lance standing in the kitchen wrapped in nothing but a towel. They hadn't actually been introduced until the second meeting, later that night, during Gwen's birthday party. Merlin had blushed and stared pointedly at the wall behind Lance's head.

The third time he’d met Lance the week Freya had gone to visit her aunt. Merlin had been the very obvious third wheel that evening.

"He's in Spain until the end of term. He learned to tango last night. He's promised to teach me when he gets home."

"Don't you already know how to tango?" Merlin asks. "Didn't you try to teach me last summer?"

"That's beside the point, Merlin," Gwen says. "Anyway, when you go up to visit Gaius for Christmas, we should all go dancing. It'll be fantastic and--"

"I don't have anyone to dance with, Gwen."

"There are other single people in the world. Lance has single friends, and it’d be fun.” Gwen smiles hopefully.

Merlin drums his fingers on the counter and straightens up. "I have to get to class. Thanks for the coffee."

It's colder when he gets outside, a little too cold for October. He walks to the library, scarf flapping wildly in the wind. He tries to make it cover the bottom of his face, promptly spills coffee down the front of his coat, and gives up. When he walks into the library, the woman behind the desk gives him a welcoming smile, just as she does every other day.

He sets his things down at a table and walks to the magic history section. Arthur had told him the night before that he was working on his thesis, which focused heavily on the conflicts between sorcerers and men. Merlin could tell Arthur had tried to stay objective during their conversation, but it was clear he wasn’t too comfortable about sorcery. He hadn’t been rude about it, just unsure, and that alone had made Merlin hopeful. There are shelves and shelves of books, so he pulls one out at random and flips through it.

Most of the kids in Albion knew the stories of the Magic Wars, even if they weren't taught in school. Not to say that being taught about the Wars in school was helpful. Most of the information favored the Pendragons so much that the information was useless.

"Interested in the Magic Wars, are you?"

Merlin jumps. "What?"

"The Magic Wars. Are you writing a paper?" The librarian from the desk leans against the bookcase. The nametag pinned to her chest reads Mithian.

"I'm—no. I just wanted to learn more."

"You might want to try a different book," Mithian says mostly to the bookcase. She traces a finger over some of the spines as she searches, and then pulls one out. It's thicker than the book Merlin is currently holding. "That one was published by King's Publishing. They paint the sorcerers in an…inaccurate light. This one should be a little more helpful."

"Oh, um, thank you."

"You're in here a lot, aren't you?" Mithian says. She keeps looking for books, even as Merlin flips through the one she'd just handed him. "I’ve seen you come in. You looked very unhappy."

"Um,” Merlin says, shifting awkwardly. “I had to write an analysis on _Fahrenheit 451_. I got a little carried away.”

"To be fair,” Mithian says. “Most students look unhappy this early in the morning. This one is more about Merlin's magic. Legends say, even though Merlin died in the final battle for Camelot, his magic reincarnates itself every so often. King has been trying to find a way to track it since he started getting powerful."

“Could he do that?” Merlin asks before he can stop himself.

“Let’s hope not. I can’t imagine what he’d do if he got his hands on magic that powerful,” Mithian says, handing Merlin yet another book. “Assuming it exists.”

By the time Merlin leaves for class, he has four books stuffed into his bag. When he's sure no one's looking, he murmurs a spell and the weight of his bag disappears.

"You seem preoccupied."

Arthur glances across the table at Morgana, who shrugs, focusing on making sure Mordred doesn't get food all over the table cloth.

“Preoccupied?” repeats Arthur. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Uther frowns, and Arthur flushes, embarrassed. “I suppose I’ve not been sleeping well. I’m a bit behind on my thesis.”

"You're behind on your thesis?" Uther says from behind his wine glass. His father doesn’t sound angry, but Arthur has to force himself not to curl in on himself. It's ridiculous; he can face the head of the university, but his father is able to subdue him with a look.

"Perhaps you should change your subject,” says Uther.

"I'm not changing my subject, father. I’m more than halfway through. I'm just getting worn out."

"I don't understand your interest in sorcerers, Arthur. They're dangerous, worthless creatures."

When he looks over, Arthur notices Morgana's smile has become rather fixed; even Mordred gets a little quieter. Arthur hates having this conversation, but his father likes to have it regularly, despite the fact he and Arthur have been debating it since Arthur began university.

 "The history disagrees,” says Arthur tersely and, with very little tact, forces the subject away from sorcery.

"You and I both know you're nowhere near being behind on your thesis," Morgana says later as they walk through the park. Mordred runs ahead, dropping breadcrumbs for the birds that haven’t migrated yet.  "What’s really on your mind, Arthur?”

"What do you think father would do if he knew about Mordred?"

"He'd probably disown me, have us arrested,” she says watching her son run along the path.

"Magic isn't illegal, Morgana."

"No,” she agrees. “Did you meet someone?"

 It takes Arthur a moment to realize she’s not talking about Mordred anymore. He coughs a bit awkwardly and listens to the sound of leaves crunching beneath his feet.

"His name is Merlin,” Arthur says. “He's an English major at Ealdor University. He's named after the wizard, but pretends he’s named after the bird."

Morgana laughs. "Uther will love that. His poster child dating a boy barely out of college named after the most powerful sorcerer of all time."

"It's a little risky, yeah,” Arthur says. He spots a stand selling ice-cream up ahead and, much to Morgana’s annoyance, points it out to Mordred.

**_Arthur_Pendragon:_ ** _Do you have siblings?_

Merlin frowns at his screen. Despite Arthur’s apparent comfort telling Merlin everything about his life (he has a stepsister and a—rather controversial—six year old nephew. He’s also a bit afraid of his father), Merlin hasn’t been nearly as forthcoming with his information.  Merlin sighs; it’s really not _that_ private of a question.

 **_MerlinEmrys:_ ** _My parents decided pretty early on that one was definitely enough._

 **_Arthur_Pendragon:_ ** _You don't seem like you'd be a terribly hyper child._

Merlin hadn't been a hyper child. When he was born, magic was still illegal, so it was dangerous for his parents to risk having another child. Not to mention his father was wanted for trying to bring about the return of the dragons, though Merlin didn't learn about that one until much later.

 **_MerlinEmrys:_ ** _I wasn't. I just got into things. I read a lot._

That night, Merlin dreams. He dreams of magic and castles and dragons. He dreams of kings and battles and a terrifying, dark haired woman. The sky glows orange and the magic in the air makes the hair on the back of Merlin's neck stand on end. When he turns, he sees Arthur sitting on horseback, a glowing sword in his hands. Arthur makes eye contact with Merlin, and raises the sword above his head. He shouts something Merlin can’t catch and, in a wide arc, lowers the sword.

Merlin wakes, sweating and feeling like he's been underwater for a very long time. His lamp is broken on the floor and the curtains look like they've been burned. When he gets up to look in the mirror, his eyes are still glowing gold.

“Shit,” he groans, rubbing the palms of his hands over his eyes. He cleans up the mess and goes to call Gaius.

*

The piano in Gaius' sitting room has been in the same place since Merlin was a child; if someone had asked, Merlin would have said that piano was as familiar to him as his magic.  But for the first time, when Merlin sits and runs his hands over the black and white keys, the piano pulses with unfamiliar, powerful magic.

 

"Gaius!" He shouts, even as he walks into the adjoining room. Having gotten better at identifying Merlin’s moods based on the tone of his voice, Gaius patiently lowers the newspaper he’s reading. "The piano feels wrong,” says Merlin.

"I have a new student. He started about a year ago; you'd know that if you visited more often," Gaius says. “He’s very gifted.”

"And young," Merlin says absentmindedly, wandering from the room before Gaius has a chance to properly respond.

Later, when they're sitting on Gaius' couch drinking flavorless tea, Merlin says, "The magic feels familiar, like I've run into him before."

"You're imagining things, Merlin,” Gaius placates.

"I'm not _imagining_ things, Gaius. It’s just a funny feeling I have.” Merlin watches Gaius sip his tea. “You're teaching someone else. That's good."

"Merlin--"

"I should get going. I have a long drive back and it's getting dark."

"The child--Mordred will be here in the morning. I'd like you to meet him,” Gaius says quickly. “And your mother would have my head if I let you drive home this late.”

“I have a lot of work to do, Gaius,” Merlin says, setting his tea on the table and gathering his things. “I’ve driven at night before. I’ll be fine.”

“Merlin, I must insist. Driving aside, it’d be very good for you and Mordred to meet, even if you end up not getting along. You may be able to teach him something. I remember when you were a boy; you’d always wished for someone with magic—”

“Fine!” Merlin interrupts. Gaius has always been very good at guilt tripping him into doing things, and this is apparently no exception. “I’ll stay and meet Mordred tomorrow, but I really do have a lot to do.”

Merlin’s room—technically, it’s the guest room, but Merlin’s been using it for so long it’s generally known as his—is on the second floor. The bed is a bit too small and uncomfortable, and the wardrobe is little more than a cabinet, but the room is warm and comforting and smells of cinnamon. Merlin lies on the bed and lets the magic of the house flow around him until he drifts to sleep in his clothes.

That night, he dreams again.

There's a young man standing on the flaming battle field. When he stands beside the dark haired woman, Merlin can see the family resemblance. The man looks incredibly sad--no, he looks resigned. Merlin doesn't falter where he stands beside Arthur, beside the glowing sword. When he meets the boy's eyes, the resigned look is replaced quickly by hatred. The young man smiles and a quiet voice rings through Merlin's head.

_"Hello, Emrys."_

Merlin startles awake to the sound of the fire alarm. The wardrobe is on fire and he can hear Gaius frantically hurrying through the house. The door slams against the wall, but even before Gaius can throw the pitcher of water on it, the wardrobe extinguishes itself.

"Um, I've been having strange dreams?" Merlin says sheepishly. Gaius walks from the room without a word. The wardrobe stands in the corner, completely unchanged.

*

"You have to learn to control it!" Gaius says the next day. He's frustrated; they've been at this for ages. Merlin lowers his hands, rolls his shoulders a bit. His head aches and his magic is trying angrily to burst from beneath his skin. It hasn’t been this _wild_ in ages, and Merlin is getting frustrated.

"I thought I _had_ it controlled!"

"Yes, well, tell that to my wardrobe!" Gaius snaps. He exhales. "What happened? Even Freya's death didn't make your magic go crazy like this."

"That was different," Merlin says, taking a sip of water and hoping Gaius attributes the shake of his hands to exhaustion. "I just--the man called me Emrys. No one calls me Emrys. We don’t even know if I _am_ Emrys."

"You set a wardrobe on fire in your sleep, and then repaired it without a spell or a second thought," says Gaius. “In my book, that’s enough to call you Emrys.”

Merlin scowls. “I’m sure Emrys could do more than set fires in his sleep, Gaius.”  He straightens his back and wipes his hands on his jeans. "Right, let's go again."

He pauses for a moment to find his tempo, then begins the piece as he focuses on creating a fire in the center of the room. As if in a jar, it hovers in midair, interacting with nothing but Merlin's magic. When he pushes, it grows; when he falters, it goes out. When he loses control, the carpet catches fire. He feels like a child.

"Turn the flame's color," Gaius says from his position behind Merlin. Without missing a beat, Merlin does.

A knock at the door breaks Merlin’s concentration, and he barely manages to catch the flame before it hits the carpet. While Gaius goes to answer the door, Merlin closes the fallboard and follows, tension in every muscle. The pair from his dream is standing in the living room. The woman is just as beautiful and terrifying as she was in his dream, but the blue-eyed man is practically a toddler. Merlin can't help but smile when the boy breaks free of his mother's grasp to run across the room.

"That's strange,” she says. “Mordred doesn't usually take to strangers." She offers Merlin her hand and Merlin takes it, trying not to be concerned by the way her son is hugging his legs. "Morgana LeFay.”

"This is my nephew Merlin,” says Gaius. “He's going to be helping Mordred with his lesson today as I’ve been having quite a bit of trouble with my wrists recently. I thought, if they get on, Merlin could be the one to accompany Mordred during the winter recital.”

Morgana's smile becomes a little strained and Merlin swears the temperature in the room drops a few degrees. Trust Gaius to get involved with a sorceress and her crazy powerful wizard son. "Right,” she says, all posh mannerisms and rigid posture. “At least now I'll be able to tell you about the newest stupid thing my brother has done. Will you be alright, Mordred?"

"Are you like me, Mr. Merlin?" Mordred asks quietly, grasping the hem of Merlin’s shirt. As surprised as he is, Merlin's really just relieved the boy hadn't called him Emrys. Gaius nods briefly, and Merlin kneels so he's eye to eye with Mordred.

Up close, Mordred’s eyes are a deep, deep shade of blue, and Merlin’s suddenly afraid he’s going to mess this up. _“Forbærne_ ,” he murmurs. When a small fire appears in the palm of his hand, he adds, “ _Draca_.” And the fire shapes itself into a dragon that flaps its wings above Merlin’s hand.

Mordred's eyes widen almost comically and behind him, Merlin sees Morgana step forward. Gaius rests his hand on her arm and quietly leads her from the room.

"You have magic?" Mordred breathes. The dragon flies around his head and disappears in a tiny puff of smoke.

"Yes." Merlin smiles. "And I like to think I'm rather good at piano.” He stands, grimacing when his knees pop a little, and offers his hand. "Shall we?"

**_Arthur_Pendragon:_ ** _Why haven't we exchanged numbers yet? Usually people do that on this site, right?_

 **_MerlinEmrys:_ ** _I wouldn't know. I haven't really...spoken to anyone else._

 **_Arthur_Pendragon:_ ** _Why?_

Merlin thinks through his reasons again. The biggest reason is magic. The third reason is murder. He’s not sure what the second reason is; probably something to do with body odor or strange facial hair.

 **_MerlinEmrys:_ ** _I've been talking to you. And I'm a little paranoid, I guess._

 **_Arthur_Pendragon:_ ** _I'm not going to kill you._

 **_Arthur_Pendragon:_ ** _That seemed a lot less creepy before I hit enter._

 **_MerlinEmrys:_ ** _Yeah, I can imagine._

 **_Arthur_Pendragon:_ ** _Look, forget I said anything._

 **_MerlinEmrys:_ ** _Maybe we could video chat or something, just to be sure._

Merlin looks around at the state of his room and adds:

 **_MerlinEmrys:_ ** _But not tonight. I wasn't expecting to have company._

 **_Arthur_Pendragon:_ ** _How about Friday night. 7pm?_

Merlin grins at his screen.

 **_MerlinEmrys:_ ** _Yeah, sounds cool._

*

"You've been smiling a lot more lately," Gwen says during lunch over the din of their classmates. "Things going well with Arthur?"

Merlin keeps his face blank. "Things going well with Lance?"

"Yes." She points at him with her fork. "Don't ignore my question."

"I'm not; I'm just not going to answer it."

Gwen makes a face, “You'd think after a year and a half, I'd learn not to expect so much from our cafeteria." The spaghetti she pushes around her plate is questionable at best; at worst, Merlin isn't really sure what it is.

“This is why I pack my lunch,” Merlin says. “It’s leaving a puddle.”

"Not everyone can live on cheese sandwiches."

"I eat peanut butter sandwiches sometimes." Merlin steals one of her breadsticks and tears it into bite-size pieces as he speaks. "We have a date Friday, kind of. We’re video chatting.

"Don't eat," Gwen says immediately. "Lance always seems to be eating really crunchy biscuits; it’s awful."

"The great Lancelot has a _flaw?_ And here I was thinking he was a god dropped from the heavens to grace us mere humans with his presence!"

"Oh, fuck off," Gwen laughs, throwing her napkin at his face.

Merlin ducks and stands, laughing, “I’ve got to get to class. I’ll see you later.”

*

He spends the week trying to keep up with his responsibilities. Between his English coursework and learning Mordred’s piece, he barely has time to get properly nervous about his date with Arthur. That's not to say he’s not nervous: he's already accidentally set fire to three of his favorite shirts.

On Friday, Merlin stops to pick up dinner on his way home, and eats it while sitting on his kitchen counter. He pulls a bottle of wine from his fridge, but doesn't open it. Freya used to tell him he was incapable of dressing himself sober, never mind drunk, and he doesn't really want to prove her right tonight. He hops from the counter and takes the unopened wine to his bedroom.

As he searches for a clean shirt, his belongings organize themselves around him. By 6:45, his room is as close to clean as it'll get and his shirt is relatively unwrinkled. He uncorks the wine, feeling victorious when he ducks just as a pair of shoes whiz past his head to land neatly in the closet.

Arthur has added him. Merlin pours his wine into a glass before clicking the 'add contact' button. Before he knows it, Arthur's video window is loading and Merlin is fighting the urge to down the entire bottle of cheap wine as quickly as possible.

"Wow, you're cuter than I thought," Merlin says when Arthur’s face pops up and then covers his face with both hands. "That was a terrible hello.”

Arthur laughs loudly. It's a comforting laugh, one that makes Merlin grin despite his embarrassment. "Uh, thanks. I think."

"It’s not that I thought you’d be unattractive—I mean you have that picture up on the site and—“ Merlin looks up at the ceiling and exhales. “I’m usually much better at speaking than this.”

"You're doing fine," Arthur says. "You look nice. I was expecting a wizard's robe, honestly."

"Sorry to disappoint,” Merlin says dryly. When Arthur laughs again, Merlin can't help but join in, thinking that this is so much better than a simple _lol_ could ever be. Merlin can imagine them sitting side by side on a couch, telling each other about their day.

"How was your week? You mentioned you had a lot going on."

"I got everything in. I just wish teachers would remember we do have other classes."

"Every teacher thinks their class is the most important," says Arthur wisely. Then, he ruins his sage advice by adding, "Obviously, mine is the most important.

"Obviously."

"Are you drinking?" Arthur asks incredulously when Merlin's wine glass shows in the frame.

"I've had all of three sips!" Merlin says defensively, though now that he thinks about it, maybe drinking when his magic is in such a state isn't a very good idea. They both sit in silence for a minute and Merlin tries to avoid eye contact by not looking at his webcam.

"What are you doing during Christmas?" Arthur asks.  He looks really hopeful and Merlin tries not to look as uncomfortable as he suddenly feels. "I thought, maybe if you had a few days free, we could meet up, go to dinner."

"Oh, um. I have to visit my uncle. I'm helping him with one of his piano students. My mum and I are going to be there until the New Year."

"Right," Arthur says to his lap. Merlin grimaces apologetically.

"Sorry. It’s just that we’ve always gone up to visit during Christmas."

"No, no. It's fine. You don’t have to apologize for being with your family. I just wondered--you play piano, then?"

"Yeah, since I was young. It was one of the few ways my mum could get me to talk to people." This isn’t really a lie, Merlin reasons. He hadn't really liked talking to people as a child. "I ended up liking it more than she expected."

"You should play me something." Arthur smiles.

"I can't," Merlin says quickly, mind filling with visions of his belongings levitating and catching fire and Arthur knocking over his computer as he rushes to phone the authorities...

"Why not?"

"I don't have a piano. I didn't have room for it in my flat. I usually use the ones in the music building on campus. Anyway, I’m in the middle of learning a duet. It’s no fun with one person.”

"Why are you studying English if you love piano so much?” Arthur asks, moving in his chair. “If you don't mind my asking."

Merlin thinks of the way his magic relaxes at the piano. He thinks of the way it weaves itself into the wood and the strings and the music. And he thinks of the way his skin warms and his shoulders relax and he feels free. He wishes he could explain all this. “It’s complicated,” he says instead.

“My father wanted me to go into business,” Arthur says, scratching the back of his neck. “He nearly disowned me when I chose magic history. We didn’t speak until—well, it’s all water under the bridge now.” He laughs again, a little falsely, and asks Merlin his favorite novel.

Arthur wakes confused the next morning. As he reaches over to shut off the buzzing of his alarm clock and rubs sleep from his eyes, he tries to remember the strange dream he'd had.

It was about Merlin, Arthur realizes as he washes his hair. Merlin had been chanting something—not a spell. The language had been wrong—and waving a wand at a piano while it played itself. The tune had been haunting and beautiful, but the keys had flown off to swirl around Morgana. Mordred had been clinging to Merlin's legs, and beaming up at the thin man. That's how Arthur had known he was dreaming—Mordred never beams at strangers.

*

"Arthur, are you okay?" Leon asks, snapping his fingers in front of Arthur’s face. Arthur just nods, realizing that he’d been staring at the table for nearly a minute.

"Didn't sleep very well last night."

"Didn't sleep at all, more like," Percy chimes in. "You look terrible."

"Cheers, Percy," says Arthur sarcastically, moving slightly so the waitress can set a glass of water in front of him. "No, I had a date last night and I felt like he wasn't telling me something important." Leon chokes and Percy stares, and it takes Arthur a moment to realize which pronoun he'd used.

“Shit. Um, yeah. Forgot to tell you; I'm seeing a man.” Arthur’s voice is too cheerful as he speaks. “His name is Merlin and he lives in Ealdor."

There's an awkward pause while all three men focus uncomfortably on their drinks. This isn’t at all how Arthur had wanted this to go. In fact, if he’d had his way, it wouldn’t have happened at all.

Finally, Leon grins. "Whatever makes you happy, I guess."

"Lance knows a Merlin, doesn't he?" Percy says and Arthur releases the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

*

Sometimes, Arthur hates his job.

He leans against the blackboard and watches two of his students argue. They’re just as awful as he probably was when he was their age. It's not that they're badly behaved, he explains frequently to Morgana—and now Merlin. They just assume their parents were right about everything. They assume the textbooks and the films they’ve been fed their entire lives are accurate accounts of history. Teaching the magic wars has always been the most difficult for Arthur.

"The Sorcerers had it coming," says one kid with the gravity of a philosopher unveiling the meaning of life. "They were the reason King Uther lost his wife. They can't be trusted."

Arthur tries not to roll his eyes. Judging by the raised eyebrows he receives from the girl in the front row, he wasn’t very successful.

"You can't kill an entire race of people because you don't agree with them!" another girl snaps. Before it gets too heated, Arthur steps in.

"Both Shelia and Dave make very good points," he says carefully. "Uther's prejudice may have been…warranted because of the way he was affected by magic; however, it was very inappropriate because he applied it to all magic users." He leans against his desk. "That's why the war between The Old Religion and Uther lasted so long, and eventually caused the end of Arthur's era of Camelot. His attitude is—"

"Sir, who do you think was right?" Shelia asks politely. Well, as politely as she can, considering she’d interrupted him midsentence. The other students give Arthur their full attention.

Arthur thinks of the rage and betrayal Lady Morgana must have felt. He thinks of the fear his sister lives in constantly, afraid of her dangerously gifted son being discovered. He thinks of the terrible look his father gets when he hears the word 'magic.’ He knows he has to choose his words carefully; he’s only a teacher, after all.

"Merlin," says Arthur. "He was the only one truly stuck in the middle. He was also the only one to look at the problem from both sides, though he was obviously hoping to have the magic ban lifted within Arthur's lifetime. But I can also understand that the others were coming from a place of fear."

"You sound like a magic sympathizer, _sir_ ," Dave says with a nasty edge to his voice.

Just realistic, Arthur wants to say. He doesn't. "This isn't politics; it's history. We’ll be going over the Sympathizer Movement in two weeks, which is incidentally the week before your final exam is." And the argument dies in a chorus of groans.

"Your voice sounds different," Arthur says the next time they Skype. Merlin wraps the blanket more tightly around his shoulders and pulls his knees up to his chest.

"I’m getting over a cold.” Merlin sneezes into a tissue, and figures he doesn't have to be embarrassed by his general...grossness. After the first five times they'd Skyped, they'd both decided to change their Facebook statuses to unspecific _In a Relationship_ , even if they hadn’t friended each other. If Arthur can’t handle a bit of sniffling, they’re going to have a problem.

"Because you're exhausted," Arthur says matter of factly.

"Prat,” Merlin sniffs.

"My sister swears by Vitamin C and Zinc," Arthur amends. "She also makes her son take naps when he's sick. You need rest."

"I'll sleep over break,” Merlin says, gesturing with his tissue. “I have one more final and then I can sleep."

Arthur smiles in a strange, soft way that Merlin has been noticing more and more often. Merlin scratches awkwardly at his head, noticing in the tiny window how his hair is sticking up. He tries to flatten it without being obvious.

Merlin blows lightly on his tea, keeping his eyes lowered so Arthur won't see him reheat it. "Did you get through the Wars without your class killing each other?"

"Barely,” Arthur sighs. "I just wish I could pick sides."

Merlin grimaces sympathetically. Arthur had explained this once. Really, he's picking sides with how objective his lectures are--most of his information isn't from the textbook. Though he’s refused to elaborate, whenever he mentions King Publishers, his brow furrows and his nose wrinkles in distaste.

"When we first spoke, you seemed like the sort who didn't like magic," Merlin says before he can stop himself. Maybe, if Arthur asks, he'll claim his fever made him delusional or something.

"It's not..." Arthur hesitates, "My family names their children after the Pendragons. It's a tradition. They can trace our lineage back to around the time the Pendragons lived--it's quite interesting, actually." He stops and takes a drink of water. "My father brought me up to be distrusting of magic, as his father had done to him growing up. When my father remarried, he realized he and my sister would never see eye to eye about magic. That didn’t keep them from fighting.”

“Does your sister—?”

"No," Arthur says too quickly, and he fiddles with the side of his computer, checks his headphones. "Her son does. My father doesn't know.”

If there are any drawbacks to a Skype relationship, this is certainly one of them. On the screen, Merlin sees Arthur run a hand through his hair, and he wishes he can reach over and comfort him. He wants to kiss him and tell him that sorcery isn't synonymous with death. Not anymore.

"He'll be okay," he says in what he hopes is a comforting voice. "Your sister will be okay. Things are better—well, they're kind of okay, and—"

Arthur snorts. "Thanks for trying, but we’ll never really understand, will we?"

Merlin keeps his mouth shut and drinks his tea.

*

It’s not that Merlin is a particularly messy person (he is), but the first thing Hunith always does when she enters his apartment is tidy. She stacks mugs and plates on the kitchen counter, folds stray blankets. She vacuums and throws away three charred shirts, deciding very quickly that she doesn’t want to hear that story.

By the time Merlin gets home, Hunith has cleaned out his fridge and done a load of laundry.  The mugs have been put away in the cupboard and the apartment smells vaguely of lemons. Merlin drops his bag on the couch and blinks at his surroundings.

“You cleaned. How long have you been here?” he asks as his mum pulls him in for a hug. He can almost rest his chin on the top of her head; the realization makes him a little sad.

Hunith smiles up at her son, wiping her hands on her jeans. “A couple hours. I figured the sooner it was finished, the sooner we could leave. It helps that most of it was already done.” She swats his shoulder and says, “You’re finally growing up.”

Merlin is the first one out to the car. He gets in, curling in the passenger seat in the way that he usually gets scolded for. The car smells like vanilla and the cheap petrol station coffee his mum buys every time she goes on a long drive, and radio station plays a familiar pop song as they pull out of the driveway.

“Engerd treating you well?” he asks, opening a bag of pretzels as Hunith pulls onto the highway. She merges lanes, then relaxes against her seat. She’s never been particularly fond of highways, despite how much she travels by car.

“It’s a bit colder, bit busier, but the restaurant is doing well. I miss having you around.”

Merlin focuses on the road ahead of them. He’d gotten into Engerd’s university. He’d very nearly moved with his mother, but Ealdor was home and familiar, and Engerd was known to be even less friendly toward magic than some places in Camelot.

“I should have visited more, but I figured after this summer, you’d want a bit of space.” She glances at him, taking her attention from the road for only a moment, and asks, “You’re doing better?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Merlin mumbles. He taps his fingers on his thigh. “I—you know the guy I met? Talking to him helps a little.”

“Any chance I’ll get to meet him?” Hunith teases. It’s the same way she’d teased him about Will and, eventually, Freya. Merlin shrugs—he hasn’t actually told his mother _how_ he’d met Arthur—but doesn’t say anything, just offers her the bag of pretzels and changes the station to something less grating.

*

They reach Gaius’ around midnight. The lights are out and the only sound in the neighborhood is their footsteps as they walk to the door. Before his mother has a chance to search for the hidden key—Gaius has never been one for false bottomed rocks. Instead, he likes to hide his extra key in a different spot every year without telling anyone where he’s hidden it—Merlin utters a quiet spell and the door creaks open. Hunith straightens from her search for the hidden key.

“I forget how useful that is. Think you could give us a little light?”

“Not without burning the place down,” says Merlin, flipping the switch in the hall. He’s been good with fire, but light is something that continuously evades him. “I’m going to bed.  I have to teach in the morning.” He kisses her goodnight and wheels his suitcase to his room.

“Mr. Merlin!” Merlin is awake for less than 45 minutes when he finds himself with a lap full of Mordred. Hunith takes his tea and sets it on the coffee table on her way over to introduce herself to Morgana.

“Sorry we’re so early. He couldn’t wait. Woke me up shouting about Merlin being back and then wouldn’t sit still during breakfast.”

Mordred seems to regain his composure a bit and slides from Merlin’s lap to curl against his side. As the little boy talks a mile a minute about everything from school to his stuffed rabbit, Merlin lets his control on his magic go just a little so Mordred can feel it. Hunith hands Mordred a cup of apple juice.

“I made a volcano at school! My teacher let me put in the vinegar!” Mordred says excitedly around his straw, “I like science. Did you like science, Mr. Merlin?”

“I wasn’t very good at it,” Merlin admits. “I really liked reading, though. My friend Will would play jokes on people with—“

“Don’t be giving my son any ideas!” Morgana shouts from the kitchen. Merlin gives Mordred a mischievous look, and Mordred giggles into his juice. When he finishes, Merlin takes their cups to the kitchen.

“You can go warm up. I have to get dressed,” Merlin says, walking back to where Mordred’s still sitting on the couch. Mordred looks hesitant, so Merlin adds, “I can’t play piano in my pajamas, can I?”  

He ignores the grin he _knows_ his mother is shooting him as Mordred scampers off; she’s always told him he’s good with children.

Once he’s changed, Merlin stands in the doorway of the piano room and watches Mordred play carefully through his exercises. His magic, weaker than Merlin’s, but still very strong, flows through the room. It feels like the air during a long spring storm, or the way Merlin feels after jumping into a cold lake on a hot summer day. He jolts from his thoughts as Mordred’s hand slips. The clash of notes rings through the room until Mordred takes his hands from the keys and calmly restarts his scale.

“Posture, Mordred,” Merlin says, noticing the way Mordred slouches over the keys and swings his feet. Mordred straightens his back.

“I still can’t believe Gaius has you playing this.” Merlin looks over the fairly complicated piece of music Gaius had told him to rehearse. “Aren’t you a bit young for Beethoven?”

Mordred stops his exercises and turns to look at Merlin.  “I like it,” he says so earnestly that Merlin can’t help but believe him.

“Alright, if you say so,” Merlin says, pulling up the second bench beside Mordred. “I want to hear you play through your part before I add mine.”

They’re taking it a bit under tempo for Mordred’s sake—no matter what he says, this is a difficult piece for a teenager, never mind a six year old. He plays through his part carefully and the only times Merlin can tell he’s having trouble are when the air around them begins to crackle. When he finishes, he looks expectantly at Merlin.

“That was very good, Mordred,” Merlin says awkwardly. “But you have to relax. If you don’t, you r magic will snap—like a rubber band that’s been pulled too far—and we’ll have a mess to clean up. Try to let your magic breathe.”  

The second time he runs through it, crackling in the air ceases.

Arthur leans back in his desk chair. He’s submitted the rough draft to his thesis and, once he finishes grading the class’s exams, he’ll be able to leave and pack his dress shirts away for a month. He sighs, taps the end of his pen against the wood of his desk, and pulls another exam toward him.

By the time he’s able to leave, it’s already dark out. There’s a thin layer of snow on the ground that nearly slips Arthur up when his phone vibrates in his pocket.

 **_Merlin:_ ** _the kid im teaching piano is practically a prodigy. He’s playing a Beethoven piece and he’s six!_

Arthur almost laughs and slows to a stop while he texts back:

 **_Me:_ ** _How exactly does that make him “practically a prodigy”?  My nephew is playing something complicated, I think. My sister won’t stop going on about it._

 **_Merlin:_ ** _i didnt learn this piece until i was eleven, if that gives you any idea._

 **_Me:_ ** _I have to drive. I’m going to call you._

“Hello?” Merlin says after a few rings. His voice is tinny through the speakers of Arthur’s car.

“I texted you two minutes ago telling you I was calling. You have no reason to sound so confused.” Arthur can hear papers shuffling in the background. “Maybe you could play part of the piece so I’ll understand. The only Beethoven I know is Ode to Joy.”

“Liar,” Merlin snorts. “You sound entirely too posh to only know Ode to Joy.”

“The only instrument I learned was the recorder during primary school,” Arthur says. Merlin makes a pained sound. “Don’t be so upset. You should hear me play Hot Cross Buns—“

 _“Fine,_ I’ll play you something,” Merlin says loudly.  Through the speakers, Arthur can hear Merlin talking to someone as he walks through the house. Finally, a door closes and Arthur hears the sound of the fallboard being lifted. He sets the phone down and presses a few keys. “What about Schumann?”

“Merlin, I never really liked ballet.”

“He didn’t write ballets, _Arthur_ ,” Merlin says so snidely Arthur’s a bit taken aback.

To be honest, Arthur has never been particularly fond of the piano. He’s always preferred orchestras to soloists and cellos to pianos.

There’s another pause, and Arthur doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until Merlin begins to play.

The piece is slow and quiet as Arthur drives. Arthur knows the piece is familiar, but he can’t place it—maybe he’d heard it in an advert or something. The notes are measured and if Arthur listens closely enough, he can hear Merlin’s steady breathing behind the sound of the music.

It’s like Merlin’s playing inside Arthur’s mind. The chords resonate in his ears and he has to pull into a car park for a moment to close his eyes and listen. It’s not until Merlin speaks that Arthur realizes the music’s ended.

“Arthur?”

“…What?” He shakes his head and sits up, his mind foggy. “Sorry, I don’t know what happened. It was very…. What’s that piece called?”

“ _Träumerei_ ,” Merlin says. “It’s from _Kinderszenen_.”

“I think,” Arthur says, pulling out of the car park, “I only understood half of that sentence.”

“ _Kinderszenen_ was a set of pieces written by Schumann. _Träumerei_ was the seventh. It means dreaming.”

And the memory hits Arthur like a ton of bricks. He remembers the dream he’d had after the first time he and Merlin had spoken face to face. It’d been the dream with the player piano…did player pianos play Schumann? Most of the ones he’d heard played jaunty ragtime pieces. He remembers Merlin chanting…

“Arthur, are you alright? Was it really that bad?” Merlin asks, sounding worried.

“No! No, it was great. I just…I’ve heard that before.”

“I’m not surprised,” says Merlin, his tone back to normal. “It’s a very famous piece. I haven’t played it in years, actually. I’m not sure why, but it was the first one to come to mind.”

“Could you play another one? Maybe something a little more upbeat: that one was so calming I nearly fell asleep at the wheel.”

“Well, we can’t have that, can we?” Merlin says and, when he begins a strange arrangement of Hot Cross Buns, Arthur laughs.

“Merlin! Mum says we’re going to buy a tuxedo for me! Do you want to come? Can Merlin come?” Mordred says excitedly at the end of his lesson. It’s their last one before their performance that weekend. Merlin glances at Morgana.

“Gaius mentioned that you haven’t got a tux, so I figured I could chip in,” she says with a slight smile, “as a thank you for helping Mordred.”

Mordred pulls Merlin out the door so quickly he barely has time to get his shoes on—or to remind Morgana she pays him for his services.

The shop they go to does a fantastic job of making Merlin feel very poor. He sits on a cushion beside Mordred while Morgana talks to the woman behind a very high, pearly counter. Mordred swings his legs, feet thumping quietly as they collide with the white fabric of the cushion.

A man dressed in a smart suit comes from the back; somehow, he manages to look professional despite the lock of hair that’s escaped from his ponytail. He’s followed by a burly man who smiles kindly at Mordred. The first man bows slightly at Merlin, who figures he’s supposed to follow him.

“Right in here,” the man says gesturing to a white door. “My name is Gwaine and I’ll be helping you this afternoon.”

“I’m Merlin,” says Merlin, shifting uncomfortably. “Um--”

Gwaine relaxes; his smile stays in place as he tucks the stray lock of hair behind his ear. “You’ve never done this before have you?”

“I—the last time I bought a tux was when I was eleven.” Merlin shoves his hands into his pockets so he doesn’t accidentally knock something over, or blow it up…or stain it. Why is everything in this room _white_?

“We should probably begin with measurements, then,” Gwaine says cheerfully, pulling a bright pink measuring tape from his pocket.  “You’re going to have to remove your shoes and jacket, boy wizard.”

Gwaine likes to talk while he works, Merlin realizes very quickly. “Boy wizard?”

Gwaine looks at him as if it’s obvious. “You have the same name as the wizard. You are aware of that, yeah?”

Merlin frowns. “I’m named after the bird.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” says Gwaine from where he’s kneeling to measure Merlin’s inseam. “So what’re you doing with Lady Morgana? She doesn’t usually, you know, get on with people.”

“Lady Morgana? She’s not nobility is she?” Merlin says, staring pointedly at the wall.

“She’s rich enough to be.” Gwaine taps the inside of Merlin’s thigh to get him to widen his stance, then switches legs. “It’d be terribly ironic if she were actually nobility.”

“I teach her son piano,” says Merlin, mostly to change subjects.  “We’re performing Friday night and I didn’t have a tux.”

“How do you like Mordred? He hates me, which is why Percy always has to measure him.” Gwaine huffs out a laugh, and if it sounds a little bitter, neither of them comments on it. “It’s like he’s frightened of me or something. He seemed alright with you; closest I’ve ever seen the kid to being relaxed.” Gwaine stands so he can measure Merlin’s waist. “ _God_ , you’re a scrawny thing.”

“Is that professional?” Merlin asks.

“Not particularly,” Gwaine says, beaming in a way that throws Merlin off guard. “At least we’ll save on fabric costs.”

On the way back to Gaius’s, Mordred sleeps in the back seat, arms wrapped around a small stuffed rabbit. Morgana keeps the radio on low, and Merlin can hear quiet piano music playing.

“Sorry,” Morgana says when the piece restarts, “You probably get sick of piano music all the time, but it’s the only thing he’ll sleep to while we’re in the car.”

“I don’t mind,” Merlin responds. “It could be Charles Ives.”

“ _The Unanswered Question_ was in August,” says Morgana, turning the radio up just enough that Merlin knows the conversation is over.

*

The night of the performance, Hunith hurries around the house, searching for her shoes, while Gaius rushes around looking for another copy of some Mozart concerto one of his students had lost. Merlin sits in his room and breathes.

The tux, which Morgana had dropped off the day before, fits perfectly.

“Merlin, are you ready to go?” Hunith pokes her head into Merlin’s room. He blinks, then stands. Hunith gives him a sympathetic look. “Nervous?”

“That obvious?” he loops his scarf around his neck.

“You always either moved too little or moved too much when you performed as a child. At least now, we don’t have to worry about you summoning a dragon.”  Merlin laughs nervously, but Hunith doesn’t, and he wonders then is she was joking about the dragon thing.

When they get to the auditorium, Hunith kisses Merlin good luck on the cheek, then goes to find her seat. Gaius, who is dressed far more casually than Merlin—lucky bastard—leads the way to the dressing room they’ll be sharing with Mordred and Gaius’ other students.

When Merlin enters, Morgana stands. She and Mordred are sitting apart from the other students.

“Thank god. He’s losing his mind,” she says as he walks over. Behind her, Mordred sits rigidly in his chair, the air around him feeling charged.

“You okay Mordred?” Merlin kneels beside Mordred. His face is a little paler than usual, but he jerkily nods once. Merlin stands. “Gaius says he has a room reserved for me and Mordred to warm up. We’ll be fine.”

It takes a few moments, but eventually Morgana relents. She fusses over Mordred’s tuxedo for a moment, shoots Merlin a look that could easily be mistaken as worried, then strides from the room.

The walk is absent of Mordred’s usual chatter. Merlin keeps a hand on Mordred’s back so he doesn’t get lost in the crowd, and it seems to calm the boy enough that he’s at least unclenched his fists and stopped looking so ill.

“Do you remember what Gaius told you to do when you felt nervous?” Merlin asks after they’ve both warmed up. Mordred shakes his head and begins to look pale again. “You picture the audience in their pants.”

Mordred giggles, “Gaius never said to do that, Merlin.”

“He didn’t? I’m sure he did,” says Merlin cheerfully. “Ready?”

When Merlin was younger, he’d spent quite a bit of time on stage. Hunith, pleased she’d found something to keep him from going stir crazy and experimenting with his magic—or drugs—encouraged him to perform in Gaius’s concerts, or any concert at all. Gaius—though not _quite_ asenthusiastically—had encouraged him as well. Merlin had been happy onstage, the vibrations of the piano calming the anger he’d felt about his magic and his father.

The lights are hotter than Merlin remembers.

 Mordred walks on his right, gripping Merlin’s hand so tightly he’d be worried if Mordred was any stronger. He leads them to the crook of the piano.  “Hello. My name is Merlin Emerson, and this is Mordred LeFay. Tonight, we’ll be playing Beethoven’s _Sonata for Piano Four Hands in D Major_. Thank you and enjoy.”

When they sit, he quickly sets up barriers between Mordred’s magic and the audience; the last thing they need is someone finding out what Mordred can do. The piece begins, and if Mordred sits just a little bit closer than he usually does to Merlin, Merlin doesn’t make him move away. The entire time they play, Merlin can feel Mordred’s magic permeate the air around them.

There’s something else, Merlin realizes as he tries to focus on playing through the section of triplets they’d rewritten. His magic is reaching for something—someone—in the audience. He forces his magic back; there are more important things to worry about right now, he thinks as Mordred misses a measure of accidentals.

And then it’s over. Mordred gets caught a little bit on his coattails as he clambers from the bench, and then they bow. Merlin takes his hand and leads him from the stage.

“That was very good!” Gaius says to Mordred when they’re safely out of the wings. Mordred scowls.

“I messed up.”

“You were playing a very difficult piece. I’m sure your Uncle Arthur will be very proud of you.” Gaius ruffles Mordred’s hair, then hands him a juice box to drink while they wait out the rest of the recital.

Merlin helps Mordred into his jacket and leads him out to the lobby where they’d planned to meet Hunith and Morgana. Morgana stands a little off to the side, talking to someone. Mordred runs over to the man, who picks him up, grinning. He turns around and freezes.

Merlin stares, wide-eyed, and begins to push his way quickly from the lobby. When he gets outside, he’s not even sure where he’s going. He walks down the sidewalk and pretends not to hear the fast footsteps following him.

“Merlin! Merlin, wait!” and it’s Arthur’s voice calling from behind him. It’s Arthur’s hand grasping Merlin’s upper arm to get him to turn around. “I thought for a moment I had the wrong person.”

Merlin blinks. He wasn’t ready for this, not tonight. Not this year, even.

“Why’d you run?” asks Arthur. “I mean, I know this isn’t really how we’d planned to meet, but I expected at least a small smile. Did you know you look terrified right now?”

“Sorry,” Merlin says.

“What are you apologizing for?” Arthur asks, laughing, and Merlin lets himself relax, even as Arthur steers him down the sidewalk. “That was the best I think I’ve ever heard Mordred play, and he’s usually a lot less cheerful after performances.”

“My mum says I have a way with children,” Merlin says. And then he mentally kicks himself. _My mum says I’m special_ he thinks. It’s like he’s in primary school all over again.

“Morgana wasn’t kidding when she said Mordred likes his new piano teacher. He got on well enough with Gaius, but Gaius wasn’t _quite_ able to keep up.”

Merlin directs his gaze at the sidewalk. “Oh. Gaius has been having trouble with his wrists, so I offered to help out.”

“And you met me on the internet and started teaching my nephew piano. Morgana’s going to have a field day when she finds out she met my boyfriend before I did.” Arthur bumps shoulders with Merlin, who wraps his arms tightly around himself. Arthur’s grin falters. “We _are_ together, right? I haven’t been imagining this for the past two months?”

“I—yeah. I mean no. I mean—you’re not imagining this. I just don’t know how to—“ Merlin stops and tries again, “I’m not sure how to do this. It’s different online, you know?”

“Well,” Arthur says, stopping to face Merlin. “If you’d let me, maybe we could start with a kiss. I mean, since we’ve been dating for two months and all.”

Merlin flushes and hopes it’s not as visible as it feels. “At least take me out to dinner first.”

Arthur laughs again, throwing his head back, and drapes an arm around Merlin’s back. “I think there’s a nice Thai place around here, though you’re probably a bit over dressed. What is that? Armani?”

“The tag said Hackett,” Merlin says distractedly, fishing through his pockets for his phone. “I should let my mum know why I ran off.” He sends her a quick text-- _Ran into someone I know. I’ll be home later. Don’t wait up--_ and is aware of Arthur tapping something out on his phone.

“Ready to go?” Arthur asks, grinning. Merlin grins back, feeling foolish, then kisses Arthur just because he can.

Later, when Arthur drops him at Gaius’s, Merlin feels like he’s floating. Arthur kisses him goodbye in the car and doesn’t drive away until Merlin quietly closes the front door. Hunith sits at the kitchen table, cup of tea in front of her. She looks up from her book.

“The kettle’s still hot and there’s leftover dinner in the fridge,” she tells him. Merlin can feel her eyes on him as he digs through the cupboards for a mug. He’s still wearing his tux, though he’d shoved the bowtie into his pocket about ten minutes into dinner. “You ran off so quickly, I didn’t have a chance to tell you how well you both did. And you forgot your coat; I put it on your bed.”

Merlin pours himself a cup of tea and sits across from her. He smiles sheepishly, and his mouth feels just a little bit tender. “I saw someone I knew.”

“So you told me,” she reminds him gently. “Morgana’s brother? He’s very good looking, and he did run after you rather quickly.” She grins at the blush Merlin can feel building on his face. “You look very kissed out, Merlin.”

Merlin lays his head on the table and wills himself to disappear. He stops almost as quickly as he starts. He probably could disappear himself if he wasn’t careful: he’d accidentally vanished his hamster when he was younger. “He’s my internet boyfriend.” He mutters into the table.

“What was that?”

“He’s my internet boyfriend!” Merlin says more loudly this time. He groans as his mother laughs and says, “I’ve known his nephew for nearly two months, and I didn’t even know they were related. _Why are you laughing?_ I could use some sympathy!”

“Oh, you poor boy,” Hunith says, sounding not at all sympathetic. “ _Merlin and Arthur_ : who would have guessed?”

“That joke was incredibly original,” says Merlin, deadpan. “There’s no way you came up with that on your own.”

Hunith makes a face, then grows very serious. “Are you going to tell him?”

Merlin stares intently at his tea. “I don’t know. Anyway, he probably already knows. Why else would I be teaching Mordred? Even if he hasn’t figured it out, it’s not like Morgana won’t tell him.”

He’s known Morgana long enough to know she’s fiercely protective of her family and, despite what Arthur’s told him about how much he and his sister bicker, Merlin knows that protective streak includes her younger brother.

“If you think he knows, you should tell him,” his mother says. “He’d want you to tell him. And hey, maybe he’ll be pleased to have his Court Sorcerer by his side again!”

“Right,” Merlin says shortly.  “I’m going to bed.”

He leaves before his mother has even stopped laughing.

When Arthur returns from his run the following morning, Morgana is lounging in his living room, a plate of expensive cheese and crackers in front of her. On the floor beside the table, Arthur sees a gift basket one of his coworkers had given him for his birthday.

“Those aren’t yours,” Arthur says as he walks past. “How did you get in here?”

“Your door was unlocked.” Morgana pops a cracker into her mouth and leans over the back of the couch.

“Was it?” Arthur says, knowing full well that he’d locked the door on his way out. He grabs his water bottle from the refrigerator.  “So,” he begins once he’s comfortable on the couch. “Why are you here? You know, other than to eat my birthday gifts.”

“You get all the good gifts. People just buy me flowers, or those fucking fruit baskets with flower shaped cantaloupe,” she says, popping another cracker into her mouth. “It’s punishment.”

“Punishment.”

“You’re fucking my son’s piano teacher and neither of you told me.” She keeps her face perfectly calm, not even smiling as Arthur chokes on his water. “It’s punishment.”

“I’m not… _fucking_ anyone,” Arthur wheezes.

Morgana eats another cracker. She swallows neatly and fixes Arthur with a pointed glare. “He’s fucking you, then. You ran after that boy so quickly there was a dust outline of your body left behind.” She leans forward and pushes the crackers away. “You left your nephew alone on his big night to chase after a boy.”

“It was an impulsive moment!” Arthur defends. Morgana rolls her eyes.

“Mordred was very upset,” she says. “Cried the entire night.”

“Why are you here, Morgana?” Arthur sighs. He knows Morgana’s lying—Mordred’s never been much of a crier. Still, he makes a mental note to be extra nice the next time he sees his nephew. “I know it’s not because I made Mordred cry.”

“Oh, to hell with it,” says Morgana to the ceiling. “You do understand why Merlin’s helping with Mordred, don’t you?”

“Because he’s Gaius’s nephew?”

“Are you being intentionally slow, or are you really that thick?”

Arthur blinks. And then he laughs. And when Morgana scowls, he blinks again. “You’re not serious. Merlin’s not a _sorcerer_.”

“You’re the one who said it. You know Mordred doesn’t take piano to learn piano. Gaius’s wrists are fine; there’s no reason he couldn’t accompany Mordred.”

“Morgana, what person in their right mind would name their magical child _Merlin_. It’s literally the most obvious name in the book.” Arthur takes another long sip of his water. “Anyway, I would know if Merlin was a sorcerer.”

“You met him online a couple months ago, Arthur,” Morgana says impatiently. “There’s no way you’d know if he knew how to hide it properly. And sometimes, honestly, you’re a bit of a moron.”

“Let’s say he does know how to hide it properly,” Arthur says, pointedly ignoring her comment. “Why would you tell me? Are you even allowed to tell me?”

Morgana pauses. “Well, Merlin hasn’t given his _express_ permission, but—he’s very powerful, Arthur. I just want to make sure you’re not getting in over your head.”

“Look, if it makes you feel better, I’ll ask Merlin next time I talk to him. Now will you get out of my flat so I can shower?”

Morgana frowns again, but she picks up her coat. “This cheese is rather good,” she says. Arthur waves his hand at her, closing his eyes. When he opens them, both his sister and the gift basket are gone.

Merlin picks up on the fifth ring when Arthur calls later that day, and his hello is low and a little groggy.

“Merlin?”

“Arthur,” Merlin responds, sounding a little more awake. “You’re calling early.”

Arthur smiles to himself. “It’s nearly four, Merlin.”

“Is it? Right. Um, why are you calling?” Merlin asks. In the background, Arthur can hear the rustling of his blankets as he sits up. “Not that I don’t want to talk to you. It’s just…sorry. I’ve only woken up.”

Arthur pauses. He can feel the words on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn’t want Morgana to be right. He doesn’t want to find out this boy is a sorcerer, because that would change everything. He doesn’t want to know, so he doesn’t ask.

“Uh, a few friends and I are going out tonight. I was wondering if you’d be my plus one,” Arthur says instead.

“Oh, um. I’m sorry, but my friend Gwen wanted to do something tonight,” Merlin says, sounding genuinely apologetic. “She called last week and I promised, so—“

“No, Merlin. It’s alright. I understand,” Arthur says, trying his best not to sound hurt.  “Maybe another time?”

“Of course,” Merlin says. “I’m sorry.”

They talk for a little while longer. When Arthur hangs up, he has to convince himself he’s not relieved.

“No, mum. I’ll be fine. I’ll probably be back late, so don’t wait up, okay?” Merlin kisses his mother’s cheek and shouts a goodbye to Gaius before he goes outside. Gwen waits in the car, and Merlin can see her singing along to whatever she’s listening to.

“The Spice Girls?” he asks as he opens the door and the unmistakable melody of Spice Up Your Life spills from the car. “I didn’t know you liked them.”

“Lance made me a dance mix. He thinks he’s funny,” Gwen says defensively, but she doesn’t turn down the music. “How’re you doing?”

“We saw each other last week. I’m fine.” Merlin winces at the agitation in his voice, but Gwen doesn’t react.

“So your performance went well?”

“Yeah. It was…it went well.” Merlin looks out the window and pretends to be fascinated with the buildings that make up downtown Camelot. “So where are we going?”

The club is a one-story building with a sleek black exterior. _The Red Dragon_ is written across the front in bold red letters, and behind them, there’s a large image of a soaring dragon. Merlin stares.

“That’s a bit…over the top, don’t you think?”

“Come on,” Gwen laughs and pulls him inside.

If anything, the interior is even worse. The room is lit with red lights, and the chairs are black. Everyone’s so well dressed that, as they walk through the room, Merlin is relieved he decided to wear one of his nicer shirts.

“Lance said they have a table near the back,” Gwen says, leading the way.  The further they get from the door, the more Merlin can feel the bass of the music in his feet.

“Gwen! Merlin! Over here!” Lance is sitting in a booth that is, unsurprisingly, black. It’s close enough to the stairs that the dance floor isn’t too far away, but far enough they can speak without having to scream at each other over the music. On the table in front of Lance, there’s an array of drinks. Gwen raises her eyebrows.

“Got started a bit early, didn’t you?” she asks, kissing him quickly.

“Most of these are Gwaine’s. They all went to dance for a while, but I told them I’d wait for you two,” Lance says. “Hey Merlin, doing alright?”

“Yeah,” Merlin says. He focuses on taking off his coat, then sits across from Lance and Gwen. “As alright as expected, I guess. How was Spain?”

Lance launches into a story Merlin only pays half attention to. Gwen, on the other hand, leans against Lance’s side and listens aptly while Merlin plays with a straw wrapper and tries not to look too bored.

“If you want a drink, I think Gwaine’s got a tab going. We’ll all pitch in at the end of the night,” Lance says, gesturing vaguely to the left. He’s too polite to say it, but Merlin’s able to see the dismissal for what it is.

The bar is just as sleek and red as the rest of the tables. Merlin wonders how they were able to decorate a bar in only two colors—even the wood floors look to be a bit red, though that could easily be the lighting—without it looking cheap. The bartender, a dark haired man who somehow looks even younger than Merlin, looks over and smiles at Merlin.

“And what can I get you?” He leans forward over the bar and into Merlin’s personal space. Merlin leans back.

“A mojito, please.” Merlin slides onto one of the barstools and glances at the man’s nametag. “Daegal.”

Daegal nods and turns to make Merlin’s drink. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around here before,” he says coyly. Merlin shifts uncomfortably.

“I’m here with friends.”

Daegal rubs the spearmint leaves over the rim of Merlin’s glass, making the action look positively filthy, and drops them to the bottom. “Hm. Well, they were rude to leave you alone.” He shoves a masher into the glass, and it’s at that precise moment Merlin realizes he’s being flirted with. He clears his throat awkwardly.

“They didn’t leave me alone,” he says stiffly. “I showed up late. They’re dancing.”

“My sister used to be a dancer. She stopped when she went to uni, but she was very good. She almost got accepted to—“

“Merlin?”

Daegal’s grin fades as he looks over Merlin’s shoulder. Merlin turns.

“Arthur!”

“I’ll have a negroni on the rocks when you’re finished with his,” Arthur says shortly. Daegal scowls and turns away. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here. I thought you were out with a friend.”

“I am! I just—she’s with her boyfriend, so I thought I’d come get a drink.”

“You’re third wheeling it. Very brave,” Arthur laughs. Daegal sets the mojito in front of Merlin.

“I guess that’s my cue to leave,” Merlin says, quickly reaching for his wallet before Daegal can start flirting again.

“It’s on the house.” Daegal smiles.

Merlin flushes. “No, it’s fine. I don’t mind paying—“

“I insist. You’re a first time customer. Have a good night.” He winks and goes back to finishing Arthur’s drink without another word.

“I think I’ve had enough crippling embarrassment for the night,” Merlin says cheerfully to Arthur, who looks irritated. “I’m going to rejoin my friends. Maybe we’ll run into each other again.”

Arthur catches up with him halfway to the table. “If you’d like, you’re welcome to join me and my friends.”

“Boy wizard!” Gwaine shouts when the pair approaches the table. “I see you met the Princess.”

“Don’t call me that, Gwaine,” Arthur sighs, sliding into Merlin’s empty spot. Gwen’s eyebrows furrow, and she looks between Arthur and Merlin.

“You two know each other?” She asks, cocking her head to the side. “Wait, is _this_ Arthur?”

Several pairs of eyes widen in unison. Gwaine, however, snorts. “Of course he’s Arthur, Gwen. You’ve known him for years.”

“Wait, this is Merlin?” the burly guy—Percy, Merlin thinks—from the tuxedo shop asks.

Merlin slides hesitantly into the booth beside Arthur, who gets really quiet. Merlin can feel the heat from Arthur’s arm sinking through his sleeve and resists the urge to take his hand.

“Yeah,” Gwen interrupts. “Uh, this is my friend Merlin from school. Merlin, this is Leon, Percy, I guess you know Arthur and Gwaine.” She looks at Arthur, who is gripping his glass so tightly Merlin’s a little worried he’s going to shatter it. “I take it this is the friend who couldn’t make it?”

“Um, yeah,” Arthur says tensely. “This is my…boyfriend Merlin.”

Gwaine chokes, spraying cider into his lap. “Wait, what? I thought you worked for Morgana.”

“I do.”

“But you’re Arthur’s _boyfriend_? Since when do you date blokes, Penn?”

“Don’t be an ass, Gwaine. Drink your cider,” Leon snaps. He grins across the table at Merlin. “It’s nice to finally meet you. Arthur’s been talking about you for weeks.” He laughs when Arthur buries his face in his hands.

Merlin downs his mojito too quickly and, through the sudden cold-induced pain in his head, waves a server down for another.

“God, I thought they’d never leave,” Merlin sighs to Arthur when they’re finally alone at the table. He can see the others weaving their way through the crowd to dance. “What’re you drinking? It looks dangerous.” Arthur slides his glass over to Merlin.

“It’s not dangerous. It’s a negroni. My dad used to drink them, swore by them, so I tried one when I turned 18.” He shrugs, jostling Merlin.

“Like father, like son,” Merlin teases, lifting the glass and taking a sip. Almost immediately, he pulls a face and is very tempted to spit the drink back into the glass. Instead, he chokes it down and sticks out his tongue. Arthur laughs.

“It’s not _that_ bad, Merlin!”

“Must be an acquired taste,” Merlin gasps, taking a long sip of his drink to get the bitter flavor out of his mouth. “I don’t know why anyone would drink that stuff willingly.”

“Because they have taste,” Arthur says, gulping the rest of his drink down. He winces and tries to play it off as a grin. “We should join the others.”

Merlin’s had just enough to drink that he agrees. He lets Arthur lead him down the stairs and into the sea of bodies. Arthur grips his wrist as he navigates through the crowd, and Merlin’s thankful for it, because he can’t imagine he’d be able to do it himself.

Finally, Arthur catches a glimpse of Gwen’s purple dress and Lance’s black shirt from over Arthur’s shoulder. Gwen waves them over. Arthur pushes his way past a pack of really drunk girls dancing against each other and, with a final tug, pulls Merlin over to the group.

He says something to Merlin, but it doesn’t make it over the sound of the bass thudding through the speakers. He’s smiling, so Merlin just smiles back and nods. Arthur pulls Merlin closer and moves along to the fast electronic beat.

“You never said you could dance,” Merlin shouts, his mouth near Arthur’s ear.

“This isn’t dancing, Merlin, it’s gyrating.  Dancing is much less fun.”

It’s different dancing with a man,Merlin thinks as he loops his arms around Arthur’s neck, feeling a bit like a girl. It’s not that he’s never danced with a man before, but it’s definitely been a while. Where Freya was curves and soft skin, Arthur is lines and hard muscles. He knows how to lead, even dancing like this. Merlin remembers the way he’d clumsily lead Freya while they danced, and momentarily feels guilty for enjoying himself so much.

“You’re thinking too much,” Arthur shouts. “Relax,” he says, and Merlin does.

Later, when they’re trailing lazily behind the rest of the group, Arthur says, “You know, I’d always heard terrible things about online dating.”

“Hm?” Merlin responds, still a little drunk despite the dancing and the water Gwen had forced him to drink back at the club (“ _I am not sending you back to your mother drunk, Merlin!”_ ).

“Yeah. I’d always heard everyone was a creepy old pervert, but I don’t think I ran into any.”

“Creepy old perverts don’t usually go for other creepy old perverts, Arthur; it’s how the internet works.”

“Don’t be an idiot.” Arthur shoves Merlin gently, laughing. “I’m not _old_ , and if either of us is creepy, it’s you!”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. You’ve become best friends with my nephew!”

“No, I’ve become _piano teachers_ with your nephew,” Merlin corrects, wondering vaguely what was off about that sentence. He lets it go. “We understand each other.”

“Creep,” Arthur says, sounding entirely too fond. Up ahead, Gwen beams back at them from over her shoulder.

“You should thank her,” Merlin says after a moment. “She’s the one who wouldn’t stop pestering me to make an account.”

“Perpetually single?” Arthur jokes.

“Something like that….” Merlin hears Percy say something that makes Gwaine swear and Leon laugh. “Gwen thought I was lonely.”

“Were you?” Arthur asks.

Merlin shrugs, the movement clumsier than usual. “I never really thought about it.” He feels Arthur take his hand. “It’s not important. Come on, we’re falling behind.” Merlin slips his hand from Arthur’s grasp and hurries to catch up with the others.

Arthur goes to Sunday lunch mildly hungover and exhausted. When he climbs into Morgana’s car, she hands him two tablets and a bottle of water.

“You should know better than to drink the night before we see Uther,” she chides, starting the engine. “He’ll probably be able to smell it on you.”

“I didn’t even drink that much. Most of this is lack of sleep.” Arthur gestures at himself.

“Worried about telling Uther about Merlin?”

“Hardly,” Arthur says, and he isn’t lying, not really. He’s not planning to tell Uther anything today.

Uther greets them with a smile. Morgana tightens her grip on Mordred’s hand and Arthur resists the urge to run. As the oldest man in the group, he takes it upon himself to ask, “Having a good morning?”

“Very good,” Uther says, leading the way to the dining room. Behind his back, Arthur and Morgana exchange nervous glances.

“Are you going to tell us what’s going on?” Arthur asks once they’ve all sat down to lunch. Morgana quietly focuses on cutting Mordred’s food.

“My researchers have had a breakthrough,” Uther says smugly—it’s the closest he ever gets to cheer these days. “They say The Emrys’ magic tripped the sensor. If he uses anything stronger, we’ll be able to pinpoint it immediately.”

“The Emrys isn’t a person,” Arthur points out between bites. “It’s energy, magical energy. Merlin was a person.” Morgana raises an appreciative eyebrow. Arthur speaks to her rather than to Uther. At least that way, he won’t have to see the look his father is giving him over the table. “People have been researching this since the end of the Magic Wars—before then even. It’s believed when the Wars ended and Merlin died, the magic was returned to the land.”

“That would imply that magic is a natural thing,” Uther says coldly.

“Who’s to say it isn’t?” Morgana asks.

“Magic exists, father, and it has to come from somewhere,” Arthur interrupts before a proper argument can erupt. (If someone were to take the coldness in Morgana’s tone and add it to Uther’s, Arthur thinks the icecaps could be fully reformed in less than a year.) “It existed before Merlin was born and it will continue to exist, which gets me back to my original point of ‘Emrys’ referring to the immortality of the magic.”

“And I can trace it,” Uther says, somehow managing to win and end the argument with the one statement.

“How _dare_ he?! Magic users don’t want to be identified. They aren’t hurting anybody!” Morgana fumes to Arthur later, hands shaking as she buckles Mordred into his seat. Mordred clutches his stuffed rabbit close to his chest.

“It’s not actually going to work,” Arthur soothes, climbing into the passenger seat. Morgana slams Mordred’s car door and stalks around the car to wrench open her own. Arthur carries on. “Emrys’ magic may be traceable—especially if someone has use of it—but that doesn’t mean _everyone’s_ magic is.”

“Emrys isn’t the only one with wild magic, Arthur,” Morgana says, but she seems to have calmed down.  Neither of them glances back at Mordred, but her meaning hangs in the air between them. “It’s dangerous.”

“He’s not going to find out, and even if he did, there’s really nothing he could do,” says Arthur carefully. He knows how Morgana’s moods work: her rages could reappear just as quickly as they left.

“There is so much Uther could do,” Morgana sighs. “I just wish I didn’t have to worry about it.”

*

On Tuesday morning, Arthur walks into his kitchen to see Mordred sitting at the table with a glass of juice and a grilled cheese sandwich. Morgana is nowhere to be seen. Arthur briefly flirts with the idea of changing his locks and just as quickly dismisses the idea; Morgana would probably change them back or break a window.

“Mum says you have to take me to Merlin’s because Aunt Morgause needed help with a dress,” Mordred says before Arthur has a chance to ask where Morgana is. “Mum said a lot of bad words, but she thinks I didn’t hear them.”

“What time is your lesson?”

“After lunch.”

“Right,” Arthur says slowly, drawing out the word. “When’s lunch?”

“Now. Can I have a cookie? Mum said I could have a cookie after lunch.” Mordred blinks slowly and the look on his face is far too innocent, but Arthur gives him a cookie anyway.

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” he mutters.

“Did you know Mr. Merlin is a wizard?” Mordred asks excitedly in the car as Arthur tries to remember how to get to Gaius’s. “He can make fire appear in his hands! Mum says that’s why I like him. She says my magic likes his magic.”

“Did she?” Arthur responds, too preoccupied with not missing his turn that he doesn’t pay much attention to what Mordred says. Eventually, Mordred quiets down and looks out the window. He doesn’t say anything else until Arthur pulls into Gaius’ driveway.

“You don’t have to be afraid of Mr. Merlin, Uncle,” Mordred says wisely as they walk up to the door. “He’s very nice and he doesn’t get angry with me like Gaius does when I mess up my exercises.”

A brown haired woman Arthur vaguely recognizes answers the door. Before he can even say hello, she grins.

“You must be Arthur! Morgana called to let Merlin know you’d be bringing Mordred over. Come inside, come inside!”

Gaius’s house smells like Christmas. There’s a large, undecorated Christmas tree in the corner of the room and on the coffee table, Arthur can see Christmas decorations poking from the top of a battered box.

“Decorating today? Don’t you think it’s a bit late?”

“It’s only the 20th. One year, we did it on Christmas Eve.” She hands Mordred a candy cane and sends him off. “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. I’m Hunith, Merlin’s mother.”

 _Oh_.

“Oh,” Arthur says.  “It’s very nice to meet you.”

Hunith smiles. “You look like you need a coffee. You can help me with the cookies.”

“Smells good in here,” Merlin says, walking into the kitchen an hour and a half later, Mordred trailing behind him. “Are you making sugar cookies?”

“Oh yes. Arthur’s been helping,” Hunith grins over at him. Arthur waves, then drops the ball of cookie dough onto the baking sheet. “Would you like a cookie, Mordred?”

“Morgana’s going to kill me,” Arthur says. Merlin leans against the counter beside him, takes a bit of cookie dough from the bowl and pops it into his mouth. Arthur makes a face.

“Shouldn’t you wait until they’ve been baked? You’re going to get sick.”

“I’ve been doing this for years, Arthur,” Merlin says, surreptitiously brushing his hand on the front of his green jumper.

“Very festive,” says Arthur and hands Merlin a towel.

Merlin smiles shyly, wiping his hands. “I know Mordred’s finished his lesson and you’re probably eager to get home, but you’re both welcome to stay and help decorate. We can let Morgana what’s going on. She’d probably be glad to have someone watch Mordred for a while; she sounded stressed on the phone.”

“It’s a bit early for us to be meeting each other’s parents, don’t you think?” Arthur jokes. Merlin’s face falls a bit, and Arthur nudges his arm. “I’m joking. We’d love to stay.”

“Lovely!” Hunith interrupts. Merlin takes a step away from Arthur. “Get those in the oven, if you please Arthur. You can make eyes at my son later. Merlin, either help or get out of the kitchen. If you eat that dough raw, you’ll get a stomachache.”

“Told you so,” says Arthur.

Merlin takes more dough from the bowl and crosses the kitchen to sit beside Mordred at the small table. Arthur watches Merlin show Mordred how to string popcorn and cranberries. It’s been ages since Arthur’s experienced a Christmas that was so _comfortable._ He puts the final tray of cookies into the oven and lets Hunith bully him into helping with more desserts.

Mordred makes a cheerful sound and Arthur glances over to see Merlin holding a small dragon in the palm of his hand. Arthur jumps a bit as the dragon flies around the room, and the batter he’s stirring spills over the side of the bowl. Hunith appears beside him and quietly cleans up the mess.

“I guess he didn’t tell you,” she says, watching her son. “He thought it was obvious,” Hunith says apologetically, eying Arthur, who keeps his eyes trained on the bowl. “It bothers you, doesn’t it?”

“I know it shouldn’t. I just—my father—“

“Merlin’s a good kid, Arthur,” Hunith says gently. “And he doesn’t do anything by accident, at least not when it comes to this. If he’s using his magic around you, it’s because he wants you to know about it. Just give him a chance.”

Hunith watches him carefully during dinner. Merlin, on the other hand, seems perfectly at ease.  He sits next to Arthur, close enough that he bumps Arthur every time he gestures during a story. After dinner, Merlin glances tentatively at Arthur before he waves his hand and the dishes disappear.

“Merlin!” Hunith snaps, swatting at him with her napkin as he walks past. Merlin dodges it carefully, laughing when he bumps into Arthur. Arthur automatically grabs Merlin by the waist to steady him, and releases him just as quickly.

Merlin tugs gently on Arthur’s sleeve before he can leave the room. Arthur stumbles a bit, but doesn’t seem too upset as Merlin says, “If you don’t like it, I’ll try not to use it around you. My mum said I should have been the one to tell you, but I figured Morgana would have—“

“No,” Arthur says a little too quickly. “It’s fine. I’m fine. I’m used to Mordred, right?” He grins bravely and Merlin’s expression falls.

“Arthur—“

Arthur places his hands on Merlin’s shoulders, wonders if the warmth he can feel through Merlin’s jumper is the magic flowing through his veins. Merlin blinks at him, confused, and Arthur says very seriously, “It’s fine.” And he presses his lips briefly to Merlin’s before walking into the living room.

The first thing he sees is Mordred kneeling on the coffee table, digging through the box of Christmas supplies. He has flour on his trousers and his hair is sticking up on the side, and Arthur thinks again of how angry Morgana’s going to be when she gets her son back.

Merlin waves his hand again and the lights sitting on the floor beside the coffee table begin to string themselves onto the tree.

“Now you’re just showing off,” Arthur says.

“Wow, how did you do that? Can I try?” Mordred clambers from the table. Arthur sits on the couch and watches.  Merlin kneels beside Mordred and murmurs something to him, gesturing at different parts of the tree.

“We’ll try it with a small ornament first, okay?”

Mordred lifts his hand and says a word in the language Arthur’s only heard a few times. The words sound clumsy in his voice and Arthur honestly isn’t surprised when the ornament doesn’t move.  Merlin rests a hand on Mordred’s back and carefully pronounces the word again. The second time Mordred tries, the ornament raises a couple inches before it falls gently to the floor.

“I can’t do it,” Mordred sighs.

“Just because you didn’t do it perfectly on your first try doesn’t mean you can’t,” Merlin says encouragingly. “Think of it like the Beethoven piece you played. That took you more than one try, didn’t it?”

Arthur watches the scene unfold from the couch. Mordred nods and tries a few more times. By the fifth time, Hunith has finished with the dishes and the ornament has hung itself on one of the lower branches of the tree. Mordred laughs excitedly, hurrying to get another ornament from the box.

“You’re quite the teacher,” Arthur says to Merlin later that evening as they look at their accomplishments. The room is decorated—rather haphazardly in places, thanks to Mordred’s new levitation spell—and the tree is covered in homemade ornaments. Mordred sleeps peacefully on the couch, arms wrapped around a pillow.

“We understand each other,” Merlin shrugs. “And he really likes to learn. He’s much more cooperative than I ever was.”

Arthur smiles softly at Merlin and leans forward slightly. Before Arthur can press his lips to Merlin’s, his mobile phone rings shrilly from his pocket. Merlin snorts, leaning back so Arthur can dig awkwardly through his pockets. “We should probably get going. Morgana’s called twice since six, and she’s usually a texter,” Arthur rolls his eyes at his phone.  “It’s like she doesn’t trust me.”

“She probably doesn’t,” Merlin laughs, but goes off to find Mordred’s coat and shoes.

He kisses Arthur goodbye in the driveway once Mordred’s buckled into the car.  “Drive safely,” he says, darting back into the house before Arthur has a chance to say all the things he’s thinking.

Merlin has trouble sleeping the few nights before Christmas. He awakes from dreams—terrifying dreams—of Freya and water and not getting to her before she sinks below the surface. He dreams of fire and death and friends dying in his arms. His magic doesn’t react, at least not the way it did with the dreams he’d had after meeting Arthur, but Merlin’s exhausted, so he lets Gaius bully him into drinking some truly foul valerian root tea.

It doesn’t help. By Christmas Eve, his magic feels agitated beneath his skin and his limbs feel heavy.  His mum and Gaius give him sad looks when they think he can’t see them. Merlin spends most of the day in his room.

Arthur Skypes him from an unfamiliar room at around 2 am Christmas morning and Merlin answers from his cocoon of blankets.

“You look cozy,” Arthur says, his voice a bit staticky through Merlin’s admittedly shitty headphones. “And ill; I thought you were over your cold.”

“I’m fine,” says Merlin shortly. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” responds Arthur distractedly. “You’re not fine, Merlin. What is it?”

Merlin sighs huffily and takes a sip of his hot cocoa. “I’ve just been having nightmares; it’s no big deal.” Arthur raises an eyebrow and Merlin realizes how angry he’d sounded. He winces. “Sorry. I only slept a couple hours last night and I’m afraid to sleep tonight—well, not afraid I just—“

“Don’t want to have another nightmare,” Arthur finishes for him. “You know, when Mordred has nightmares, Morgana has him tell us what they’re about. He usually sleeps pretty well after we talk him out of them. Once I had to vanquish a monster before he’d go to sleep.”

“He’s six, Arthur.”

“And?” Arthur says, and Merlin knows he’s probably not going to get out of this unless he closes the chat window. It’d be very rude, but Merlin would be lying if he said he wasn’t tempted.

“They’re about Freya,” Merlin begins. “They’re—she died near the end of April, you know.” Arthur makes a surprised sound and Merlin remembers _no_ , Arthur actually hadn’t known. “She went up to visit her aunt one weekend and the following week, someone pulls me out of class to tell me she’s drowned and we hadn’t dated all that long, but we’d been friends for a couple years before uni—“ Merlin closes his eyes and swallows, tries to remember not to babble, then speaks to his duvet. “I dream about her drowning. I dream that I’m there and she’s calling out to me, but the closer I get, the further she gets. Or I’m the one drowning and she’s pushing my head under—“

“Merlin,” Arthur says quietly and it’s only then that Merlin realizes he’s crying. He wipes at his face, furious with himself.

“You wanted to know,” Merlin says too loudly in his anger. Arthur gives him a patient look similar to the ones Merlin gets from his mother when he’s pushed her a little too far. “Sorry. It didn’t help.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Arthur responds. “I just wish I could help.”

“What’re you going to do? Cuddle me to sleep?” Merlin asks sarcastically. He sighs, “I’m fine. I’ll be fine. I’m always fine. They’re only dreams.”

Arthur gives Merlin a skeptical look, but allows Merlin to change the subject. When they sign off that night, Merlin doesn’t feel any better, but when he sleeps, he’s so tired he doesn’t dream.

After gifts and breakfast, Merlin retreats to the piano. He’s still rather tired—half a week’s worth of lousy sleep will do that to a person—and Hunith’s packing away food and gifts for the neighbors is exhausting to watch on a good day. He plays through the pieces he has memorized—Schumann makes up most of them—and is halfway through a Ravel piece when his phone buzzes.

 **_Arthur:_ ** _You’d think after 26 years of Christmas with my father and Morgana, I’d be used to the bickering…_

 **_Me:_ ** _26 years?_

 **_Arthur:_ ** _I had a birthday. That wasn’t at all the point of that text._

 **_Me:_ ** _im weeping for you as i type this._

 **_Me:_ ** _when was your birthday? you were still 25 last time i talked to you._

 **_Arthur:_ ** _Liar._

 **_Arthur:_ ** _My birthday was the 21 st._

 **_Me:_ ** _we should celebrate ;)_

 **_Arthur:_ ** _Is that a clever ploy to get into my pants, Merlin?_

 **_Me:_ ** _it must not have been too clever or you wouldn’t have figured it out so quickly._

Arthur doesn’t respond to that one right away. Merlin plays all the C keys on the piano, then the D keys, and is almost through the E keys when his phone buzzes again.

 **_Arthur:_ ** _You’re terrible at this flirting thing._

And then moments later, he ruins it with a winking face.

*

It snows the night of their date. Arthur pulls up to Gaius’ in a sleek black car Merlin’s sure he’s seen on some fancy car show. He says so to his mother and, from the couch, Gaius laughs loudly.

“You’ll be fine, Merlin,” Hunith says and sends Merlin on his way like he’s fifteen and on his first real date.

Arthur’s car smells nice—clean with a lingering hint of the new car smell—Merlin thinks, leaning over to kiss Arthur. He stops.

“You wear glasses?”

Arthur looks away, carefully pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with the back of his middle finger. “My contacts were bothering my eyes.”

“I like them,” Merlin says, smiling. “You look clever in glasses.”

“Thanks,” says Arthur. “Ready to go?” When Merlin nods, Arthur backs from the driveway so quickly Merlin can almost _feel_ his mother’s disapproval.

Arthur doesn’t listen to music while he drives. When the pair stops talking, the only sound in the car is a radio talk show Merlin’s sure he’s heard Gaius listening to. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Dear _god_ , he’s dating a talk radio fanatic.

“You seem concerned,” Arthur says. “Should I turn up the heat?”

“You should turn down the radio,” Merlin responds before he can stop himself. Arthur raises his eyebrows and Merlin winces. “Sorry.”

“No, please. Tell me how you really feel,” Arthur laughs. He turns to a station to one playing some truly terrible jazz. Merlin grimaces.

The restaurant Arthur has chosen is packed. Arthur swears as he drives in circles around the car park.

“It’s never this busy usually,” he says, circling a third time.

“We could go someplace else,” Merlin suggests, truly worried about the creaking sound coming from where Arthur tightly grips the steering wheel.

“If this place is so busy, I can’t imagine anywhere else being different. Damn! I really wanted tonight to go well.”

“You’ve got a house, haven’t you?” Merlin asks. When Arthur gives him a surprised look, Merlin backpedals. “I’m alright in the kitchen. I could make dinner, you could pick a movie, and we could sit on the couch or something.”

Arthur’s quiet for a moment, and Merlin’s sure he’s going to end up eating cold left-overs at Gaius’s while sitting in his blanket cocoon of shame—

“That…sounds great, actually,” Arthur smiles and, as he pulls onto the street, Merlin finds a better station for them to listen to.

               

Compared to Merlin’s tiny university flat, Arthur’s place is a palace. Arthur toes off his shoes and flips on the kitchen light with the hand that isn’t carrying the paper bag of groceries they’d stopped to pick up on the way.

“May I?” Merlin says, waving his hand strangely around his face. Arthur nods and watches the bag unpack itself while Merlin looks through Arthur’s kitchen supplies.

“God, even your _knives_ are posh,” says Merlin, gesturing with a very long knife. “My mum didn’t get a set of these until _last year_.”

Cooking with Merlin is a bit like cooking with a magical grandmother. Or, Arthur thinks, it’s like cooking with Hunith. Merlin’s clearly confident in the kitchen, so Arthur stands back and finds things for Merlin as he needs them. Watching Merlin cook feels domestic. It feels good.

Merlin doesn’t use his magic when he cooks. Instead, he carefully chops the onion and dices the garlic with almost professional movements.

“Where’d you learn to do all this?” Arthur asks, handing Merlin a glass of wine. Merlin thanks him, but sets it off to the side while he focuses on adding things to the pan.

“My mum’s executive chef at a pretty high-end place in Engerd,” he explains. “She made me help out in the kitchen a lot when I was younger.”

“Really?” Arthur says, the concept of helping in a kitchen strange to him. “We had cooks—father still does, actually. They didn’t like me and Morgana around when they were cooking.”

Merlin rolls his eyes at the ceiling and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like _cooks?_ Arthur leaves the room to find a film for them to watch.

Fifteen or so minutes later, Merlin wanders in, holding two bowls of pasta. Behind him floats his glass of wine and the bottle Arthur had opened earlier. Arthur tries not to frown too obviously at the way Merlin’s eyes glow in the dim light of the room.

“What’re we watching?” he asks, setting the food on the coffee table. He grins and drops onto the couch. “You know, this meal isn’t particularly good cold, so you’d better hurry.”

“What about this?” Arthur says, grabbing a DVD at random. Merlin makes an appreciative sound and grabs his bowl. Arthur sets up the film, turns off the lights, and manages not to trip over anything on his way to the couch.

“My friend Will and I went to see this when it first came out. My mum hated hearing Beethoven’s Fifth after that; I played it all the time,” says Merlin, shifting around until he’s sitting thigh to thigh with Arthur. “I still love this film.”

Arthur snorts into his pasta, earning himself a vaguely disgusted look from Merlin. “Never took you to be a comic book nerd.”

“It was mostly Will. He was mad into Alan Moore when we were growing up. This film pissed him right the hell off.”

It takes all of five minutes after they’ve finished eating for Merlin to end up practically lying in Arthur’s lap. Arthur winces when Merlin’s bony elbow jabs him right in the thigh.

“Sorry,” Merlin says, sounding very unapologetic as he continues to move around. “You know, you could lie down. It’d make this a hell of a lot easier.”

“Are you determined to speak through the entire film, or only the important parts?” Arthur asks, resting a hand on Merlin’s chest.

“Oh, sod off. I made us dinner,” Merlin laughs. He bats blindly at Arthur’s face, missing completely as Arthur leans back and catches his hand.

“And it was delicious,” Arthur says, leaning down to kiss Merlin. Merlin rests his hand against Arthur’s cheek and deepens the kiss before Arthur pulls away. “This is really uncomfortable.”

“We could move this to your bed,” Merlin suggests, sitting up. He laughs, “That sounded really bad; I’m so sorry.”

“In addition to being a comic book nerd, my boyfriend moonlights as a porn star,” Arthur says dryly, getting up from the couch. Then, he flushes as the image flashes through his mind. “Oh.”

“ _Oh_ indeed,” Merlin says, following Arthur from the room. On screen, something explodes.

With every step toward his bedroom, Arthur can practically feel his heart rate increase. It’s not bad, really, but he doesn’t remember feeling so apprehensive showing someone his bedroom before. He flips on the bedroom light; really, he’s relieved he’d thought to put away his laundry this morning.

“I like it,” Merlin says from behind him, closing the door as Arthur takes a moment to set his glasses on the dresser. And then they’re kissing and Merlin’s gently guiding him backwards toward the bed until Arthur feels the back of his knees hit the mattress. He sits, pulling Merlin into his lap.

Merlin unbuttons Arthur’s shirt, slowly at first, like he’s giving Arthur enough time to say no. When Arthur just kisses him back harder, he moves more quickly.  Merlin stops for a second to pull off his own shirt in an awkward tangle of limbs and tosses it to the floor.

 

It's not until they're both naked that Arthur pauses. Merlin’s eyes are shut tightly and he doesn’t seem to be enjoying himself as much as Arthur would prefer.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Merlin says too quickly.  “Magic’s just gone a bit weird. It’s hard to control sometimes.”

“You could let it go,” says Arthur, not sure what he’s suggesting.

“I don’t know what will happen.”

“We can stop, if you’d like,” Arthur says. Merlin shakes his head.  

“No, please. Keep going,” Merlin says, eyes widening at the way Arthur’s kneeling on the mattress between his legs. “I’m fine.”  

Arthur nods, kissing his way up Merlin’s chest.  “Tell me if you’re not alright.”

“I’m alright. I promise,” Merlin says, shifting so Arthur can reach over him to grab a condom and a bottle of lube from the drawer beside the bed. “Though you’re kind of crushing me right now.”

Arthur’s hands shake a bit as he carefully coats his fingers in lube. “How exactly should I go about this?” he asks. Merlin blinks at him for a moment, and Arthur hastens to add, “My girlfriends weren’t too keen on…this. I mean, I’ve looked it up, but everything was either very vague, or very detailed.”

“Oh, right,” Merlin says like he’s remembering this is the first time Arthur’s done this. “I guess one at a time and I’ll tell you when I’m ready.”

Arthur snorts. “That’s hardly a how-to, Merlin,” he says, carefully pressing a finger into Merlin.  

“I thought it was pretty straightforward,” Merlin responds cheekily. Arthur rolls his eyes and adds a second finger to shut Merlin up.

Merlin’s eyes don’t begin to glow until Arthur gently enters him. He holds his breath and Arthur can feel Merlin’s magic pulsing through the air around them. Every muscle of Merlin’s body is taut, like he’s fighting for control even as he falls apart.

“Merlin,” Arthur gasps, rolling his hips. “Relax.”

Merlin grasps Arthur’s arms so tightly Arthur’s sure he’s going to have bruises the next day.  With every moan, every thrust, Merlin loses more and more control until the room is filled with bright colors that swirl around them. Arthur watches his eyes glow and in the background, Arthur can hear something like thunder, but what he hears even more clearly is the sound of Merlin’s voice. It sounds like Arthur’s name. It sounds like a curse. It sounds like the most beautiful and terrifying spell Arthur’s ever heard.

 

Arthur gasps into Merlin's neck as he keeps thrusting. Merlin's grip doesn't relax, and the colors in the room burst with energy. Arthur can feel Merlin's magic beneath his skin. He can feel it coursing through his veins like it's a part of him and that, more than anything, is what sends him over the edge. " _God_."

"Merlin's fine," Merlin says quietly, and Arthur laughs quietly into the side of his neck.

After they’ve both cleaned up a bit and Merlin’s cast a cleaning spell over the bed—“They’re _damp_ , Arthur!”—Merlin stretches and rests his head on Arthur’s chest. Absentmindedly, Arthur runs his hands through the hair at the nape of Merlin’s neck.

“Do you normally glow during sex?” he asks.

“I don’t think so,” Merlin responds, unsure. “I can’t exactly see myself, can I? I think it’s just you; my magic likes you.”

“I’m flattered,” says Arthur and, to his credit, only sounds a little sarcastic. He knows, theoretically, that wild magic rarely reacts like that to anyone, let alone someone so resistant to magic—

“I can practically see the smoke come from your ears,” Merlin teases. “Don’t think too hard.” They both drift off into silence.

“Merlin?” Arthur says into the darkness of the room. Merlin makes a sleepy noise that sounds close enough to ‘yeah?’ that Arthur keeps talking. “What does magic feel like?”

It’s one of those childish questions with really complicated answers, something along the lines of _where do babies come from_ or _why is the sky blue_ , and Merlin’s quiet for so long that Arthur thinks he may have fallen asleep. Then: “You’ve been to a symphony, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

 

“It’s like that,” Merlin says and Arthur thinks that’s all he’s going to get, but Merlin rolls to lie on his

back. “It’s like when you close your eyes during a symphony. You can feel it in your feet and your finger tips and in your skin. The orchestra builds and builds until it’s so overwhelming you can’t breathe or do anything other than feel.” He exhales. “Then finally, the building stops, begins to ebb away, and you can breathe again.”

 

“I don’t think I’d like it; sounds scary.”

 

“Scariest thing in the world,” Merlin agrees. And a few minutes later, he’s pressed against Arthur’s side, asleep.

*

 “Good morning,” Merlin smiles when Arthur opens his eyes the next day. “Your phone keeps going off.”  

“It’s probably Morgana calling to hassle me about the crazy sex she thinks we’re having.” Arthur pulls Merlin up to kiss him on the lips. “I suppose there are worse ways to wake up.”

“Definitely,” Merlin agrees, leaning to kiss him again. He moves his leg so it’s pressed against Arthur’s cock, and Arthur is just about to let this get more interesting when his phone goes off again.

“Shit! That’s my father’s ringtone!” he says, as _O Fortuna_ begins playing.

“You have apocalypse music set as your father’s ringtone?” asks Merlin as Arthur digs through his trousers lying on the floor.

Arthur shoots him an exasperated look. “The other option was Darth Vader’s Theme,” he says. “Hello?”

“Arthur,” Uther says shortly, like Arthur had been the one to call him during morning sex. “You’re alright.”

“Is there a reason I shouldn’t be?” Arthur asks, sitting on the edge of his bed. Merlin kicks at him when Arthur nearly sits on his feet.

“It’s too delicate a conversation to have over the phone,” says Uther. “I’m on my way over.”

“You’re what?!”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” Uther hangs up the phone, and Arthur stares at it for a moment before frantically getting ready.

Really, it’s a miracle they pull it off. Merlin magics the living room clean while Arthur showers, and Arthur makes them a hasty breakfast of bagels and coffee while Merlin showers. There’s a particularly stressful moment when Merlin realizes he doesn’t have a change of clothes and the shirt he’d worn the night before has a questionable stain on it. (Arthur swears it wasn’t his fault, but he _had_ been the one to knock the bottle of lube from the bedside table.) Merlin pours the coffee just as Uther buzzes Arthur’s flat.

“I could hide,” Merlin says. Arthur grimaces at him, the nerves finally having a chance to make their appearance now things have calmed down a bit, and shakes his head.

“It’ll be fine,” he says, unsure if he’s comforting himself or Merlin.

“Arthur,” Uther says curtly, striding into the flat after Arthur opens the door.

“Hello, father,” Arthur mutters, following his father into the living room. Merlin is sitting on the couch, trying and failing to look relaxed.

“Father,” Arthur says, moving to sit beside Merlin.  “This is…this is my boyfriend Merlin Emerson.” Jerkily, Merlin reaches over and squeezes Arthur’s hand. Uther’s eyes follow the movement, and he doesn’t grimace so much as bare his teeth.

“Pleasure,” Uther says and, predictably, sounds like he means the exact opposite. “I wasn’t aware Arthur had _company_ , though I suppose this concerns you as well.”

Arthur flushes.

“Last night,” begins Uther, "my researchers detected a disturbance in their sensors.”

“Sensors?” asks Merlin.

“To locate the Emrys,” Uther says smugly. “And we’ve found him.”

“You…found him?” Arthur asks. Merlin frowns at him, confused.

“He was located in Camelot after an unexplainable thunderstorm erupted last night.”

 “Global warming,” says Arthur immediately. Even to his own ears, it sounds childish and desperate.

“Hilarious, Arthur,” Uther responds disdainfully. “This storm lasted little over a minute. Its epicenter is somewhere nearby. My employees are canvasing as we speak.”

“Canvasing?” interrupts Merlin. “Aren’t you in publishing? What right do you have to question innocent people? _How_ are you questioning innocent people? You haven’t got an army, have you?”

“ _Merlin_ ,” Arthur hisses. Uther looks irritated.

“No, Arthur,” Merlin says before angrily turning back to Uther. “It’s _illegal_.”

“Emrys has proven himself to be dangerous, Mr. Emerson,” Uther says calmly. Arthur can tell his father’s angry; the wrinkle on his forehead looks larger than usual. “We have every right to take care of him.”

“ _Take care of him_?You don’t have any right! And what about the sorcerers who _aren’t_ Emrys. Are you going to track them down, too?”

“Merlin, calm down!” Arthur says the same time Uther speaks.

“If I have to,” Uther says coldly, leaning forward. “Why are you so defensive about this, Emerson? Do you have information concerning the Emrys?” Uther asks.

Merlin goes very still. Arthur looks over at him. “Merlin?”

Merlin wrings his hands nervously as he says, “What does it matter if I know who the Emrys is?”

Arthur stares. “ _Do_ you know who the Emrys is?” Merlin looks at him like he’s an idiot. When he looks back to Uther, he looks so terrified Arthur wants to reach for his hand to let him know everything’s alright. A stern look from his father stops him.

“If I tell you his name, what are you going to do with the information?” asks Merlin carefully, and Arthur suddenly knows where this is going. He knows what his idiot boyfriend is about to do.

“Merlin, can I speak to you in the other room please?” He stands and walks from the room before either Merlin or his father can protest. He hears Merlin following, but Merlin doesn’t speak until Arthur’s locked the door of his bedroom behind them.

“I thought you’d put it together,” Merlin says. “I mean, after last night how could you not have known? That wasn’t really normal sex, was it?”

“What’re you saying, Merlin?” scoffs Arthur. “Are you saying you’re the bloody Emrys?”

Merlin doesn’t laugh when Arthur does. Instead, Merlin shrugs and stares silently at the floor.

Arthur sits heavily on the bed. “Shit. Guess you really are named for the wizard then,” he says, wondering why he feels like someone’s just dropped him from a building. “Why didn’t you—well, I can guess why you didn’t tell me.”

Merlin sits beside him. “It’s not that I didn’t trust you,” he says. “Well, actually it is, but that’s not—we weren’t even sure. Obviously, we knew I was different, even for a sorcerer. Gaius didn’t think anything of it when my parents asked, but then my father died and I…it was bad. We managed to get it under control. But then I met you and everything just went haywire again.”

“Well, I guess I understand why people are so resistant to internet dating,” says Arthur. “They might run into a wizard terrorist.”

“I’m not a _terrorist_ ,” Merlin snaps. “You know, for someone with a crazy powerful wizard nephew, you’re being quite the prat.”

“And for someone who neglected to not only tell his boyfriend he’s a _wizard_ , but that he’s possibly the most powerful wizard on the planet, you’re being quite pushy! You could killsomeone!”

“So could you!” Merlin says, slapping at Arthur’s thigh with the back of his hand. Unintentionally, Arthur flinches. Merlin frowns, hurt, and scoots away from Arthur. “I’m not going to hurt you. I don’t think I could--”

“So you’ve never hurt anyone before?” interrupts Arthur. “In your entire life?”

“Not in my entire life, no. I’ve hurt people—accidentally and otherwise—but I don’t think I could hurt you.”

“How do you know?” Arthur asks. “Maybe my father has a point. I mean, how do you know you won’t accidentally kill me during an argument or blow up a building or--”

“I’m not an _animal_!” Merlin shouts, moving from the bed to pace angrily about the room. “I do lose my temper, and I’ve already admitted to losing control, but I wouldn’t—I couldn’t--” he exhales loudly through his nose. “I think I need to leave. I’m going to leave, and when you’ve stopped being an arse, we can talk, yeah?”

Merlin leaves the door open when he leaves the room. In the hallway, stands Uther, looking too smug and far too predatory as Merlin passes.

“Mr. Penn,” Merlin says politely, walking past. A moment later, Arthur hears the front door slam.

“So we’ve found the Emrys,” Uther says. “And he was in your bed the entire time.”

He walks purposefully from the flat and, with a final slam of the front door, Arthur is alone.

Merlin walks for nearly ten minutes before he realizes he has no idea where he is. He contemplates calling Gwen—she’s lived in Camelot her entire life and would know where Merlin is, even Merlin doesn’t—or even swallowing his pride and calling Arthur. Instead, he ducks into a coffee shop and settles for calling his mum, feeling terribly childish all the while.

When Hunith arrives, she hugs him tightly, then practically manhandles him into the car. The radio is off and Merlin’s too miserable to break the silence. There’s a lot of traffic, and Hunith glances quickly in her rearview mirror and turns off onto a side street. Merlin smiles thankfully at her, and she says it’s nothing, but Merlin can see how clenched his mother’s jaw is despite her smile.

“Mum, I’m fine,” Merlin as his mother quickly ushers him into the house. “Everything’s fine.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Hunith snaps, looking far more relieved than angry as she pushes him into the kitchen. “Have you eaten yet? My god, you look pale.”

“I always look pale, mum,” Merlin sighs, shifting in his seat. “Where’s Gaius?”

“He’s gone over to Morgana’s. Your little storm last night has apparently affected Mordred.” Hunith shoots him a vaguely reproachful look. “What did we tell you about making a scene? This is why you’ve worked to control your magic, Merlin!”

“I didn’t exactly want this to happen,” Merlin snaps. “I’m just as freaked out about this as everyone else.” One of the dishes falls from the counter and shatters against the floor. Hunith exhales angrily.

“Merlin!”

Merlin locks himself in the piano room.

Gaius doesn’t return until later that night. By then, Merlin’s feeling less like blowing something up. Gaius walks into the room, sits in the chair in the crook of the piano, and stares at Merlin. Merlin ignores the gaze for all of twenty seconds before he stops playing in a clash of notes.

“What do you want? Have you come to shout at me, too?” When Gaius smoothly raises an eyebrow— _always with the eyebrow_ —Merlin feels a little guilty. He doesn’t apologize.

“We need your help,” Gaius says like he’s asking Merlin to save the world or something. Merlin starts playing again.

“Yeah, so?”

“Stop behaving like a child, Merlin,” says Gaius. He doesn’t shout—he rarely shouts—but Merlin knows his bad mood has been noted.

“Sorry.”

“We need you to put protection spells around Morgana and Mordred.”

“Won’t they be able to trace those?” Merlin asks. “I thought my magic was what got us into this mess in the first place.”

“Morgana’s willing to take that risk,” Gaius says shortly, which is how Merlin ends up in Morgana’s high-end flat an hour later.

She greets him at the door, looking tired and very stressed out. In the background, Merlin can hear Mordred crying. He realizes suddenly that he’s never heard Mordred cry before. It’s chilling and a bit terrifying, and Merlin doesn’t like it at all.

“He’s been like this all day,” Morgana says apologetically. “He took a nap around four, and now he’s refusing to go back to sleep. He said he was having nightmares.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Merlin says, feeling completely at a loss. He’s not really a teacher, after all. Kids aren’t exactly is forte; he reminds Morgana of this as he follows her into the house. She gives him a tight smile in return and points him to Mordred’s room.

Mordred’s room is a mess. The drawers are open and things are strewn haphazardly on the floor like someone threw them. Mordred is curled in the center of his bed, still crying. He looks up when Merlin enters.

“Hey Mordred,” Merlin says quietly, smiling nervously. Mordred blinks at him, sniffling a bit, and a few more tears fall from his eyes. Merlin wrinkles his nose, even as he moves to sit beside Mordred on the bed. He floats a box of tissues from the dresser and hands it to the boy. “Want to tell me what’s wrong? You’re really worrying your mum.”

Mordred wipes clumsily at his face and wraps himself more tightly in his blanket. “I woke up and it was raining and then...I exploded.”

“You exploded?” Merlin repeats, frowning.

“I didn’t mean to!” Mordred says earnestly. “I woke up and there was too much and it just--I didn’t mean to!”

From the corner of his eye, Merlin can see the toys littering the floor begin to tremble. He sighs and awkwardly rubs Mordred’s back.

The toys stop shaking and as he goes on, Mordred begins to cry again. “It hurt a lot, so I started crying, but mum didn’t know how to fix it.”

So he kept crying, Merlin thinks, feeling wretched. “I think I have an idea,” he says too cheerfully.

In a room Merlin assumes was meant to be a guest room, Morgana has shoved a piano. It’s a proper music room, with framed album covers on the wall and sheet music on the shelves, and Merlin can’t help but feel a bit jealous: all he’d had growing up had been a slightly out of tune upright in the corner of the sitting room.

Merlin sets up the music at the piano while Mordred gets settled on the bench.  “We’re going to play this, okay?”

Mordred nods.

“And while we’re playing, I want you to release your magic,” Merlin says. And, when Mordred’s eyes go wide, and Merlin can tell he’s about to panic, he explains, “The reason your magic hurts right now is because it wants to be used. Just relax and focus on the music, okay? I’ll be right here the whole time.”

They play through five Stravinsky duets. The first is slow and a little easier than what Mordred’s used to playing. Mordred sits and plays rigidly, the notes coming out nearly staccato as he plays them. The second has Mordred relaxing. Merlin, when he isn’t focusing on awkward page turns, can feel Mordred’s magic begin to permeate the air.

It’s not until the last two pieces that they get anywhere. Mordred’s part has gotten more difficult, and as he concentrates on the music, Merlin can tell he’s forgotten about the overwhelming pressure of his magic. The room grows hotter, too hot really, and suddenly Merlin has to use his magic to keep Mordred’s under control.

When they finish the fifth piece with two staccato quavers, Mordred slumps against Merlin’s shoulder. For a moment, Merlin thinks something’s wrong, but then Mordred exhales, asleep.

Arthur mopes for nearly a week, using his thesis revisions and his lesson plans as excuses not to speak to anyone. It doesn’t matter; between Morgana and his father, he’s not sure who’s angrier with him.  Still, that doesn’t stop Uther from calling early Saturday morning and demanding Arthur attend Sunday lunch with him and Morgana.

Uther and Morgana are in the sitting room, sitting on separate couches and speaking to each other civilly. Arthur can almost hear Morgana plotting their father’s death. She nods at Arthur, smile careful and forced.  Mordred isn’t there, but Arthur hadn’t expected him to be, not after the fiasco with Merlin.

Uther doesn’t even turn around.

Arthur sits stiffly beside his sister, looking anywhere but at his father’s face.

“I hear you’ve got your thesis revisions back,” Uther says, forcing Arthur to look at him.

“Um, yeah.” Arthur clears his throat. “I’ve been working on it all week—haven’t really felt like speaking to anyone.”

“Understandably,” says Uther. “It must be overwhelming to learn your _companion_ is a sorcerer.”

Arthur flinches and lies through his teeth, “Yes. I suppose it is.”

Before anyone has a chance to say much else, lunch is announced. As usual, Uther is the first to stride from the room. Morgana follows, but not before turning to glare at her brother. Arthur groans, wonders why they even bother going through this every weekend—honestly, the fighting’s getting a bit tiring—and follows.

During lunch, Arthur doesn’t say anything and neither does Morgana; the only sound in the room is Uther’s voice as he retells the events of the week before. He’s goading them, they both know it, but Arthur has learned not to react if he wants to stay in his father’s good graces.  

Finally, Morgana slams down her glass so forcefully the stem breaks.

“Shut up,” she says.

“What—I beg your pardon,” Uther says, eyes wide. Arthur mentally adds a point to the Morgana column of the scoreboard in his head. She’s ahead by fifteen.

“ _Shut up_ ,” Morgana repeats slowly, like she expects Uther won’t understand if she speaks any faster. “You’re afraid of a university student, Uther, because he started a thunderstorm.”

“This isn’t about the storm, Morgana. The Emrys has been known to be dangerous—“

“The Emrys hasn’t been known to be anything before last week! A gun can be dangerous if you give it to the wrong person,” Morgana says, voice finally rising. “Merlin is harmless. He’s not planning to take over Camelot. He’s only trying to live his life.”

“How can you be sure?” Uther asks, knuckles white with how tightly he grips his silverware.

Morgana looks angrily at Arthur, who focuses on his plate. He doesn’t want any part in this. “I don’t believe you,” she says. “Why won’t you _say anything_?”

“Because Arthur knows the boy can’t be trusted,” Uther says smugly. Arthur flushes with shame at the look he knows Morgana is giving him.

“You’re incredible,” Morgana says. She doesn’t sound angry anymore, only disappointed, and Arthur feels like she’s slapped him across the face. “I can’t believe you’re just _sitting_ here listening to the drivel coming from Uther’s mouth!”

“You’re not old enough to understand why magic cannot be trusted.” Uther brushes an imaginary fleck of dust from the sleeve of his grey suit jacket.

“Do _you_ understand why magic can’t be trusted?” says Morgana, and Arthur can feel a definite chill in the air around her. “Or is it because that’s _daddy would have wanted_?”

“Morgana, I will not be spoken to like this!” Uther shouts, slamming down his cutlery. “I am your father! You will respect me, or you will leave!”

Arthur looks over at Morgana, sees the color high on her cheeks. She looks angry, a bit mad, but somewhere behind the rage and the possible insanity, she looks powerful. She looks like she could conquer the world with one hand tied behind her back. She looks like a queen.

“You are no father of mine,” she says. And she pushes her chair back and walks from the room, leaving a stunned, heavy silence and broken glass behind her.

Hunith drives Merlin back to Ealdor the day after the New Year. When they pull into the car park in front of Merlin’s flat, Hunith shuts off the engine.

“Merlin,” she says gently. “We’re here.”

Merlin jumps slightly, looking around like he’s just realized where they are. “Right. Yeah, sorry.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to take a break this term, or at least another week?” Hunith asks, resting a hand on her son’s shoulder. Merlin shakes his head.

“Can’t afford to fall behind,” he says. He gets out of the car and pulls his suitcase from the back seat. Before he closes the door, Hunith stops him.

“Merlin, everything is going to be alright,” she says.

“I’ll see you in the spring.” Merlin forces a smile and closes the door.

After a month of being at Gaius’s and around other people, Merlin’s flat feels lonely. Merlin turns his stereo on with a wave of his hand, drops his things by the door, and goes to make a cup of tea.

When he logs onto his computer, the icon beside Arthur’s name is green. Merlin logs off.

*

Gwen’s gone back to giving Merlin pitying looks when she thinks he isn’t looking. They’re not as bad as they were after Freya, or even when the school year had first started, but Merlin still tries to avoid her. He’s taking more courses than last term, so he uses his age old excuse of _sorry, can’t! revising!_ to keep Gwen out of his hair. (And really, it’s not like he’s lying. He really does spend most of his time combing through textbooks and notes in an attempt not to drown in his work.)

“Do you want to do something tonight?” Gwen asks a few weeks into term. Merlin had been unable to shake her off on his way to the library.

“Can’t,” he says without looking up from the history book he’s referencing for an assignment.

“You can’t keep doing this!” Gwen says angrily. “You can’t just _hide away_ every time something goes wrong, Merlin!”

“I’m just focusing on school, Gwen. I have a lot to do. For class.” He flips the page. “And quiet down; we’re in a library. “

“The hell you do!” Gwen throws her pen onto the table, apparently unconcerned by the volume of her voice. “I thought Arthur was making things better. I know you fought, but maybe the two of you should just _talk_ about it—“

“Gwen!” Merlin hisses. “This isn’t about Arthur.”

“You haven’t done anything in the past month. I just thought you’d fixed all this,” Gwen sighs, slumping back into her chair.

"I wasn't broken, Gwen," Merlin snaps. He forces down months of irritation that are dying to push their way to the surface.

"You know I didn't mean it like that," Gwen says, having the mind to look at least a little ashamed of herself. "I miss Freya, too. I didn't know her as long as you did, but we were still friends. I shouldn't have pushed you to get over it so quickly.”

"You shouldn't have, but you did," Merlin says. The anger he’d felt leaves so quickly he feels like he’s deflated. "I really do like Arthur, though, so thanks for that.”

Gwen smiles sheepishly and closes her textbook. "Can we at least go for a coffee tonight? I miss talking to you about things other than history."

"We could always talk about science," Merlin grins, swearing when Gwen kicks at his shin beneath the table.

“Sir,” says one of Arthur’s students, raising her hand. She doesn’t speak up very often, but Arthur thinks her name is Evelyn.

“You should work on raising your hand _before_ you speak,” he says. “But go ahead.”

She blushes. “Um, I was wondering if you knew anything about what happened over Christmas. Did they really find Emrys? Is he dangerous? My mum says he’s a killer.”

Arthur curses internally. He’s not set to deal with this, not yet. “Well, I don’t believe the Emrys was reported to have harmed anyone, so you should tell your mother not to let her imagination get _too_ carried away,” Arthur smiles. The class titters quietly and Evelyn’s blush darkens. “But yes, a sorcerer thought to be the Emrys has been identified. It’s unknown if he’s dangerous.”

“Do you think he’s dangerous, sir?” another girl asks. He thinks of how to respond, wondering if the other teachers have had to put up with this. Maybe it’s just him, being the history teacher and all.

“I’m sure he wouldn’t mean to be,” he says. “I think he’s probably a very good cook with a taste for comic book films.” The class laughs and Arthur uses the opportunity to change the subject.

He’s unsurprised when he gets called into the headmaster’s office the next day. On the desk, there is a typed letter with the name Jane Harris signed at the bottom.

“Have a seat,” says Dr. Sigan, nodding to one of the rigid chairs in front of his desk. Arthur sits. Sigan isn’t as terrifying as Arthur’s father can be, but he comes in at a very close second. “We’ve had some interesting accusations made about you, Mr. Penn.”

“Have you?” Arthur wipes his hands on his trousers and wonders if Sigan can smell fear.

“This letter,” Sigan slides the letter across the desk, “arrived this morning. Would you care to explain?”

Arthur gingerly picks up the letter.

_Dear Headmaster Sigan:_

_It has come to my attention one of your teachers has been teaching questionable content in his classes. My daughter Eva came home and kindly explained to me that, not only does the Emrys enjoy comic book films, but is also a very good cook. She went on to inform me that her teacher implied I have an overactive imagination._

_I am currently looking into one Mr. Arthur Penn, but from what I’ve heard so far, he may not be the best person to teach Camelot’s children history. Please see to it that your teachers stick to the approved curriculum and refrain from any more magic sympathizing statements in the classroom in the future._

_Sincerely,_

_Jane Harris_

“I try to teach history as objectively as possible,” Arthur says, carefully setting the letter on the desk. “However, I do concede my comments about Eva’s mother were unprofessional.”

“And do you deny her accusations of your being a magic sympathizer?” Sigan pushes. He leans forward slightly in his chair. Arthur is suddenly reminded of the Mouse King and has to swallow the sudden hysterical laughter that threatens to bubble from his mouth.

Arthur chews his lip for a moment. “As I said, I try to teach history as objectively and accurately as possible.”

“We can’t have a magic sympathizer teaching history, Mr. Penn,” Sigan warns.

Arthur feels like he’s suddenly been pushed into a cold lake with cinderblocks tied to his feet. Between the sudden rushing in his ears and his inability to breathe properly, he’s sure he’s making a fool of himself. He swallows. “Of course not, sir.”

“You’re free to go, then.” It’s not until Arthur has his hand on the doorknob that Sigan speaks again. “And Mr. Penn?”

Arthur freezes.

“If there are any more problems, I’ll be forced to ask for your resignation. For the sake of our students; I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course, sir,” Arthur says, quietly leaving the office.

*

 “I’ve legally disowned Morgana,” Uther says that Sunday over breakfast. He doesn’t look up from his food, even when Arthur’s knife scrapes loudly over his plate.

“You’ve _what_?”

“She is no longer my daughter, nor is she your sister. I do regret this means Mordred will be left under her influences, but I had no other choice; it had to be done.”

“It had to—“ begins Arthur, stopping himself when Uther looks up. Arthur looks away. “I suppose it’s for the best,” he says. The words make him feel particularly uncomfortable —like he’d felt insulting the gay kids in his class as a teenager—as he says them. He takes a long drink of his water.

“I’m glad you agree,” says Uther, looking pleased—well, as pleased as he can while looking at Arthur the way a lion might look at its evening meal. “I got some interesting news from a colleague earlier this week.”

The problem with being an academic with a father who is essentially the _king_ of academia is whenever something happens, he’s sure to hear about it. Arthur shifts in his chair. “Did you?”

“You’re on probation?”

“Not in so many words.”

“In enough words,” Uther says. He lays down his cutlery and looks piercingly at Arthur. “It’s bad enough that I’ve had to disown your sister,” he says. “I will _not_ be made a fool of by my own son. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” says Arthur quietly. “Of course.”

Arthur doesn’t notice the file until he’s on his way out the door. It’s a manila envelope—it looks very official—and on the front, it reads:

_Merlin Emerson AKA Emrys_

_Location: Ealdor, Essetir, Albion_

Uther sees Arthur looking, sees him frown, and says firmly, “It’s for the good of the public.” And Arthur very clearly hears: _he is not to be alerted_.

 “Hello?” Merlin says groggily into his phone. It’d been buzzing on his side table for a good ten minutes and, try as he might, he hadn’t been able to sleep through it.

“My father has people watching you,” says Arthur’s voice. Merlin flips onto his back and glares up at the ceiling.

“You phoned me at three in the morning to tell me your father has people watching me?” he asks.

“Well, in hindsight, I should have called earlier,” Arthur agrees. “I wasn’t going to call, but I thought you’d want to know.”

“Thank you, Arthur.” Merlin runs a hand over the side of his face. “Do you mind if I go back to sleep now, or is there something else? Maybe your great uncle has my name at the top of a hit list? Your grandmother is keeping tabs on my mother?”

“My grandmother is dead,” Arthur responds. There’s a pause, and Merlin hears him sigh. “I guess I also called to apologize…about what I said. I don’t think you’re an animal.”

Merlin snorts. “That’s nice to know.”

“Merlin, stop,” Arthur says seriously. “I just didn’t know how to react. I’m used to Mordred, but he’s not nearly powerful enough to change the weather by accident, and he doesn’t walk around with glowing eyes. He rarely uses his magic at all, really. And when he does, it’s only around you.”

“The weather thing has never happened before,” Merlin says. “That was also partially your fault.”

Arthur laughs. “Yes, but the amount of _power_ it must have taken. I could feel it in the air. You didn’t even use a _spell_ , Merlin. And that’s impossible. It’s _terrifying_.”

“You seemed fine with it after we…after.”

“I could feel it,” Arthur says quietly. “For a moment, it was like I had magic and—I don’t know. It felt warm--welcoming. Did you know when you’re angry, the air around you changes? It kind of crackles and stuff.”

“Hm,” Merlin hums thoughtfully. “I didn’t know other people could feel that. It happens around Mordred and your sister sometimes, you know.”

There’s a shocked silence on the end of the line, then Arthur says, “No.”

“Well, it does.”

“ _That’s_ what scares me, Merlin,” says Arthur. “You can do and feel all these things, but you don’t even realize it. What if you sneeze the wrong way one day and something blows up? Or someone comes up behind you and you throw them across the room?”

“I’m not the Hulk, Arthur.”

“No, I know you’re not. It’s still a lot to get used to, and I’m sorry for reacting badly. I’m not sorry for being afraid, because that can’t be helped, but…yeah.”

“Yeah,” says Merlin quietly. “We’re okay, then? No more signing out when the other signs in?”

Arthur barks out a laugh. “Yeah, we’re okay.”

“Good,” Merlin yawns. “I don’t mean to be abrupt, but I have class in less than six hours. Do you mind if we call it a night?”

“Not at all. Goodnight, Merlin.”

“Goodnight,” Merlin says. “And Arthur?”

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”

*

It’s February when Merlin gets a harried call from his mum. When he answers, Merlin can hear people shouting in the background.

“Everything alright?” he asks in lieu of hello.

“Erm, I need your car,” says Hunith over the noise. “Mine has a bit of a problem.”

“A bit of a problem?” Merlin repeats slowly.

“Engine trouble,” Hunith says. “Anyway, I’ll be up tomorrow around six to get yours.”

Merlin blinks. “What? How are you getting here?”

“I’ll take the train up. Maybe we could go for dinner?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“I’ve got to go. The mechanic is trying to get my attention. See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah, tomorrow,” Merlin says, grimacing as his mother makes an honestly embarrassing kissing noise into the phone before hanging up.

And true to her word, Hunith appears the next afternoon, all smiles and windswept hair.

“You’re looking better,” she says cheerfully, like she isn’t only there to take his car. “Ready to go?”

They choose a small place Merlin likes to go to on the days he doesn’t feel like curry or cooking at home. The restaurant is small, hole in the wall place Merlin picks because he knows his mother will make a face at the menu.  

“Spinach bacon shrimp salad?” she whispers after the server has delivered their drinks. “Honestly?”

“They have better things,” Merlin insists. “Pasta and things.”

“I spent years teaching you to cook, and now I find out you’re here living on _pasta and things_.”

“I still cook!” Merlin says indignantly. “Sometimes I just don’t feel like it. It gets a bit exhausting being a wanted man.”

“You’re not a wanted man, Merlin!” Hunith lowers her voice. “You’re not still using your magic regularly are you?”

Merlin fiddles guiltily his straw wrapper. “They’re just little things. They can’t pick them up.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because they were never able to before,” Merlin says. “Arthur says his father has people watching me, but Uther’s got a lot less smug. They haven’t got anything.”

“Merlin,” Hunith sighs. Merlin looks up from the table top. “I don’t want you to get into trouble.”

“I’ll be fine.” He grins. “Anyway, I know people.”

“Gaius says Uther’s got more resources than we realize and—“

“ _Mum_ , I’m alright. I know what I’m doing. I just keep myself under control; it’s not so hard.”

Hunith doesn’t look at all convinced. For a while, they both sip their drinks in silence. Merlin answers his mother’s questions about school and pretends not to see the disappointment on his mother’s face when he doesn’t mention any friends other than Gwen.

“You’ve heard about Morgana?” Hunith asks later as they stroll back to Merlin’s flat. They’re both a little too full to walk quickly, despite the way their breath mists in the cold air. Merlin blows on his hands.

“Arthur told me,” he says quietly. “He’s pretty torn up about it, understandably.”

Hunith hums in agreement. “Uther’s not messing around about this. If he’s willing to disown his own daughter over this, I wonder what he’s willing to do to you.”

“Maroon me, probably. I wonder if he believes warlocks can’t swim.” Merlin quickly moves away from his mother as she swats at his arm. “I’m joking!”

“This isn’t a joke, Merlin.” Hunith stops and pulls Merlin around to look at her. “I need you to promise you’ll be careful; promise you won’t use your magic unless you have to.”

Merlin chews his lip. He knows his mother wants him to be safe—hell, he wants to be safe—but using his magic is part of him. It’s something he does when he’s bored or upset. It’s something he does when he’s happy.

There are times he doesn’t even know he’s doing it until his homework floats into his lap or he walks into his bathroom and realizes, even though the lights are off, the room is perfectly lit.

“Yeah,” Merlin says halfheartedly. “I promise.”

Arthur misses his nephew.

Between the stress of being on probation at work and trying to stay in touch with Merlin without his father finding out, Arthur had assumed the weird feeling in his stomach was caused by the ulcer he’s sure has developed. It’s not until he finds a tiny jumper in his laundry room that he realizes he hasn’t spoken to Morgana or Mordred in nearly two months.

Still, Arthur knows he’s picked sides. Even if he’s still talking to Merlin, Morgana will demand to know why he hasn’t stopped talking to Uther. She’ll want to know why he’s too afraid to stand up to his father, and why Arthur’s changed his lesson plans _just a bit_ in an attempt to keep his job.

Anyway, it wouldn’t be any safer for them to be seen with Arthur than it would be for Arthur to be seen with them. If Uther’s got people watching Merlin in _Ealdor_ , there’s no way he hasn’t got people keeping an eye on Morgana; with her, at least he can claim he was worried about her wellbeing.

Arthur sighs and places the jumper in the drawer of the guest room. Just in case.

In the end, it’s Morgana who contacts him. Her tone is frosty and overly polite, but Arthur’s still glad for it after so many weeks of silence, even if he won’t admit it; both of them are too stubborn to miss each other.

“Hello Arthur,” Morgana says.

“Morgana,” Arthur leans back in his desk chair. “Is this going to be a nice chat, or are you calling to yell at me? The amount of free time I have is very dependent on your answer.”

“A little bird told me you’ve made up with Merlin,” she says in what she probably thinks is a mysterious voice.

Arthur laughs to himself. “Was that little bird Merlin, by any chance?”

“That was a terrible joke, Arthur,” Morgana sniffs, like she hadn’t been the one to make the joke in the first place.

“Is there a reason you’ve called, or did you want to ask me about Merlin?” Arthur asks. “You could have emailed me about that.”

Morgana’s voice is muffled for a moment as she presses the phone into her shoulder. Arthur can hear her telling Mordred to pick up his toys before she’s back on the line. “Mordred misses you. He keeps asking me to take him for ice-cream, and you know how I feel about sweets.”

“You want me to take Mordred to get ice-cream?” Arthur frowns, confused.

“I want to give you a chance, Arthur,” Morgana responds. Arthur takes it to mean she’d missed him, too. “I don’t think you’re as much of an arse as you apparently want people to think.”

“Thank you?”

“I know you’ll do the right thing eventually, so in the meantime, I want you to take your nephew for ice-cream. Maybe you could go to a film. There’s a theater nearby that plays Sunday cartoons. They’re showing _Bambi_ , and you know how much Mordred likes rabbits; Thumper’s his favorite character. ”

“Alright,” Arthur says. “I guess father and I can meet Saturday instead.”

“You’re still meeting with Uther?” Morgana asks, surprised. “I thought you and Merlin were still together.”

“We are.”

“But you’re siding with Uther?”

And despite the severity of the conversation, Arthur wants to laugh. Morgana’s being childish, and Arthur’s reminded of all the times she’d asked for his help in the middle of a tantrum or argument with their— _his_ , he has to remind himself forcefully—father.

“I’m not siding with anyone,” Arthur says. “I’m just trying to keep the peace.”

“That’s not going to work, Arthur. It never works.” Morgana sighs. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Says the one who got herself publically _disowned_.”

Arthur’s surprised when Morgana laughs. “Please, Arthur.  He’s wanted to disown me since Mordred was born. And you have to admit, this was much more dramatic.”  

“And a bit more traumatizing,” Arthur mutters. “You’ve been doing alright?”

“When haven’t I been alright?” Morgana asks. “Mordred and I will see you Sunday.”

When he calls his father that night, Arthur lies. He easily tells his father they need to reschedule. (“ _No, nothing’s wrong_. _Something’s come up_.”) And Uther accepts it. After Arthur hangs up, he slumps onto his couch and rubs his eyes behind his glasses. This has been a very exhausting couple months.

*

Sunday morning, Morgana answers her front door in her pajamas and dressing gown. She stands in the doorway and takes a slow sip of her coffee; for a moment, Arthur thinks she’s not going to let him in.

“Uncle Arthur!” Mordred says excitedly in the background, and finally, Morgana moves aside.

“Go finish getting ready, Mordred,” she says. Mordred beams at Arthur, climbs from his seat at the table, and hurries from the room. Morgana turns to her brother. “You came.”

“Yeah, I said I would. We’ll probably have lunch instead of ice-cream; it’s rather cold today.”

“He’ll want dessert,” Morgana says, setting a cup of coffee in front of Arthur. She sits in the seat across him. “How have you been? I know I didn’t give you much time to talk when I called.”

“I’ve been worse, I suppose.” Arthur blows across the top of his coffee and watches the steam disappear. “I’m on probation at work. Kind of. Sigan’s let up a bit, but I know if I mess anything up, I’ll be out of there faster than I could say _Emrys_.”

“What did you do?”

“I said Emrys,” says Arthur blithely. “My lesson plans were too objective, according to a parent. She saw fit to send her complaints to Sigan, who then pulled me into his office.” Arthur shudders. “I swear that man styles his hair with motor oil.”

Morgana rolls her eyes and gently kicks Arthur’s shin beneath the table. “So what’ve you done? Clearly, you’ve changed something.”

“I’ve changed my lessons. They’re a bit less objective than I’d like, but accurate enough, I suppose.” He takes a large gulp of the coffee, wincing as it burns the back of his throat. “Anyway, at least I know my lessons are more accurate than what some of the other classes are teaching.” ‘

“You could always get a different job, Arthur. You’re finished with your post-grad at the end of this term,” Morgana says. “You don’t _have_ to stay in Camelot all your life.”

Arthur shrugs. He knows this, really. He’s not particularly fond of Camelot, or its traditions, but Camelot is all he knows. He can’t imagine being anywhere else. Morgana smiles sadly at him like she knows what he’s thinking, but before she opens her mouth, Mordred reappears, coat on and scarf trailing from his hand.

“I know that,” Arthur says as Morgana helps Mordred with his scarf. “It’s just…I’d rather not be blacklisted right after I finish. I was hoping for at least a year and a half before that happened.”

“One of the many downsides of having a powerful father,” Morgana says. “Luckily, he’s not mine anymore.  You two should get going; the film starts in half an hour.”

“What film are we seeing, Uncle Arthur?” Mordred asks.

“ _Bambi_ , I think,” Arthur responds, pushing his chair back. “We’ll see you later, Morgana.”

“Much later,” Morgana agrees, laughing as she shuts the door behind them.

The car park is nearly empty when Arthur pulls in. He doesn’t comment on it, and Mordred doesn’t seem to notice, as they walk to the theater. Still, it’s unsettling— _Bambi_ had always been a fairly popular film when he was growing up. Arthur keeps Mordred close.

The problem becomes clear as they approach the entrance. Beside the box office, a yellow poster with Mickey Mouse’s face acting as the curl of a treble clef reads: _Walt Disney’s Fantasia._  A small sheet of paper stuck to the glass says: _50p Saturday Matinee: Fantasia._

“Want to see that?” Arthur asks Mordred, who’s peering at the poster. He looks up.

“What’s it about?”

Arthur had grown up hearing bad things about this film, but he hadn’t seen it until his second year of uni. It’s an American film; it’s made up of classical music; it was released in 1940. Its original version has been banned in Camelot since 1940. He’d enjoyed it well enough, and _The Sorcerer’s Apprentice_ scene had been funny to watch. Most of the students in class hadn’t agreed.

“It’s classical music set to animations,” Arthur says. “Come on; I think you’ll like it.”

The woman behind the counter gives Arthur a disapproving look as he pays for their tickets. He smiles back politely.

“Why isn’t anyone here?” Mordred asks, looking around the theater. There are only two other families there along with about five teenagers scattered about. Arthur grimaces and helps Mordred out of his coat.

“Maybe they were busy today,” Arthur says. His nephew isn’t fooled for a moment.

“The woman in the window was angry with you. Why was she angry?”

Arthur hangs Mordred’s coat over the back of his chair and, as he tucks Mordred’s scarf into his coat pocket, says, “This isn’t the place to talk about it.” And when Mordred looks ready to ask again, Arthur promises to tell him in the car.

Mordred stops talking when the lights of the theatre go down. Through the first piece, Arthur feels a little discouraged; Mordred sits in his seat with hardly a reaction, though Arthur can see him swinging his feet in time to the music.

It’s not until _The Nutcracker Suite_ that Mordred gets into it. Arthur tries not to laugh: the look of wonder on his nephew’s face would be worrying if it wasn’t so funny. Even Arthur has to admit it’s a beautiful piece of animation.

Still, that doesn’t stop him from hating the strange cut between _The Nutcracker Suite_ and _The Rite of Spring_. Mordred grins at him, and Arthur tries to smile back.  

Mordred chatters excitedly as they leave the theatre. Arthur has to grasp his hand to keep him from walking into people as they walk down the sidewalk.

“And what were those things?” Mordred asks. “The horse men?”

“Centaurs?”

“Yes, those. I liked those. And the dinosaurs.” He skips a bit, tugging on Arthur’s arm. “Do you think Mr. Merlin would let me play the pretty piece at the end?”

“I don’t see why not,” Arthur says, holding the door to the restaurant open for Mordred. “You’ll have to ask next time you see him.”

“Uncle Arthur,” Mordred says after they’ve both begun eating. “Do you know why mum and I aren’t allowed to see grandfather anymore?”

“Erm,” says Arthur, poking at his chicken salad. _Damn it, Morgana._ “He and your mum had a bit of a disagreement.”

“When I have disagreements with people at school, my teacher makes us sit in time-out until we stop.”

“Yes, well, your grandfather is a bit too old for time-out, I think.” Arthur lowers his voice conspiratorially and says, “But between you and me, he probably deserves it.”

Mordred never does get around to asking about the film again. He falls asleep staring out the window, and Arthur, careful not to wake him, carries him into the flat.

 

Gwen walks into the Student Center holding a bouquet of flowers. Merlin raises his eyebrows at her from where he sits behind the desk.

“You’re having a good day,” Merlin says. Gwen laughs and hands him a large purple flower from the bunch. “Why are these plastic?”

“They’ll last longer,” Gwen says. She digs through the cupboards for a vase and sticks the flowers in it. “And it’s less of a mess. I don’t even want to think about the time Freya knocked over that vase of roses you’d brought her; it took us ages to recover all those documents.”

Merlin laughs. That had been the last time they’d allowed vases of water anywhere near the front counter. Gwen beams.

“So this is the solution. The office could use a little bit of color, don’t you think?” She sets the flowers on the counter. “When do you get off?”

“Ten minutes,” Merlin says. “Why?”

“I have to make a run to the bookshop. Turns out I can’t make it through term without buying the essay booklet for my class. Who knew? Anyway, I thought we could do something after?”

“Yeah, sounds good,” Merlin says. He’s not done anything fun since his mum came down, and that was over a week ago. “I just have to finish this and then lock up.”

When they get to the shop, Merlin wanders around while Gwen talks to the man at the front desk. He goes past the art kits and the piano books until he finds himself in the history section.

 _A Brief History of Camelot_ : _Ninth Edition_ sits on the shelf beside the rack holding the Ealdor University sweatshirts tourists buy in the summer. Merlin pulls one from the shelf—the cover features the towers of what people like to assume Camelot’s castle looked like—and flips to the table of contents. And then he swears. Loudly. There’s a new chapter listed in the table of contents.

“Is there a problem, sir?” the clerk asks from the other side of the store. Gwen frowns worriedly. Merlin shakes his head.

“No,” he says shakily. “There’s no problem. Sorry.”

_Chapter 32: The Emrys Discovered_

It’s all there. His full name is printed in the fourth paragraph. Uther’s even been so kind as to have his university listed. Merlin swears again, shelves the book, and dials Arthur’s number as he hurries from the shop. Behind him, he can hear Gwen worriedly calling his name.

“Hello?” Arthur says into Merlin’s ear.

“Your father is an arsehole,” Merlin says angrily. “He’s possibly the biggest arsehole in the universe; I haven’t decided yet.”

“What? Why is my father an arsehole? You know, other than the obvious reasons.”

“King’s Publishing has released a new edition of our history text.”

“That’s hardly—well, that is my father’s fault, but I don’t understand—“

“There’s a new chapter, Arthur,” Merlin interrupts. “It’s about the fucking Emrys and my name shows up four paragraphs in. Is he allowed to do that? He didn’t even have proof.”

“Shit,” Arthur says. “A lot of history doesn’t have concrete proof, Merlin. And I figured he’d publish it eventually, but I didn’t think it’d be so soon—“

“Well it was, and now I’m a bit fucked, aren’t I?”

“Technically, they can’t do anything unless you use your magic against someone,” Arthur says calmly. “Just don’t set anyone on fire and you’ll be fine; keep your head down.”

“That’s what I was doing before, Arthur!” Merlin snaps, pacing in front of the shop. “How am I supposed to keep my head down if I’m history’s newest discovery?”

“It is the middle of term. How many people do you think are going to be reading their textbooks right now? I know most of my students don’t read their texts even when I tell them to.”

“He listed my mother’s name,” Merlin murmurs. “They didn’t list Gaius’, but that connection’s not very hard to make. Arthur, he’s going to get me killed.”

“You’re going to be fine, Merlin. People don’t hate magic nearly as much as they used to,” Arthur says reassuringly, ignoring the derisive laugh that comes from Merlin. “Focus on the end of term and we can go from there, yeah?”

Merlin groans and leans against the cold brick of the building. “I hate your father.”

Arthur hums, but doesn’t reprimand Merlin. “You should probably call your mother.”

“Yeah,” Merlin sighs as Gwen walks from the shop carrying the book she’d needed. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Yes, later,” Arthur says. “And Merlin? Remember to breathe.”

“You’re hilarious, Arthur,” Merlin says, deadpan.

“Everything alright?” Gwen asks after Merlin’s hung up the phone. “The clerk was concerned.”

“Yeah, everything’s fine.” Merlin tucks his phone into his pocket. “Ready to go? I was thinking we could share a pizza.”

Gwen narrows her eyes at him, and Merlin keeps grinning. Finally, she sighs and loops her arm through his.

*

Gwen figures it out a week after term ends.

“So,” she says, flipping idly through a magazine. “I read something interesting the other day.”

“Hm?” Merlin says, not really paying attention as he tries to decide which town to travel to. He clicks and turns to Gwen once the loading screen appears. “What was it?”

Gwen turns a couple more pages and says, “You’re a sorcerer.”

In hindsight, Merlin’s surprised it took her so long; he’s already begun to get some hesitant glances from some of the kids taking history. That’s not to mention the carefully worded letter he’d received from the head of the university on the last day of classes.

Onscreen, Merlin’s characters get into a spot of trouble with a horde of darkspawn, but Merlin can’t bring himself to care. “What?”

“You’re on the syllabus for my roommate’s history class. She has to write a paper on you; asked if it was the Merlin I knew.” She looks up from the magazine and glances at his screen. “Your characters have all died.”

Merlin looks over and sees the screen asking him if he’d like to load his last saved game. He closes his laptop and sets it on the coffee table. “Your fault,” he says, and Gwen smiles apologetically.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Gwen sets the magazine beside his computer and picks up her mug. As she goes to put it in the sink, she says, “I wouldn’t have minded. I think it’s rather cool, actually. I’m friends with the Emrys.”

“I’m not _the Emrys_ .Well, technically I am, but I’d really rather just be Merlin,” Merlin says. “It’s no big deal.”

“It is a big deal,” says Gwen, walking back to the couch. “You’re supposed to be the most powerful sorcerer on the planet. You’re supposed to be able to stop time and control life and death and—“

“Gwen!”

“Sorry,” she says, not sounding sorry at all. “It’s just… _Emrys_.”

Merlin can almost see the stars in her eyes. “You should be running to phone the police, not fawning over me,” he says. “I’m a terrible, dangerous sorcerer, after all.”

Gwen’s grin fades. “No, you’re not. You’re Merlin Emerson, the boy who can’t walk and drink a coffee at the same time.” She lies back against the couch, draping her legs across Merlin’s. “The things that book says about you. They’re awful.”

“Of course they are. King’s Publishing is owned by Uther Penn; he’s not exactly known for being accepting of magic.”

“And he’s your boyfriend’s _father_. God, you sure know how to pick them.”

“Your fault,” Merlin says again. Gwen kicks at him.

“What’re you going to do when term starts up?” she asks. “There’s no way you’re going to keep being anonymous.”

“The university already knows. They sent me a letter last week,” Merlin says. “My mum and I think they’re just waiting for me to fuck up so they can kick me out.”

“That’s not true, Merlin,” Gwen says. Merlin can tell from the look on her face that she doesn’t believe her own words.

They sit like that for a while. Gwen goes back to her magazine. But Merlin, not feeling up to losing his game _again_ , settles for reading a book that’s mildly offensive with how badly it’s written.

“Merlin,” Gwen says quietly. “Did Freya know?”

Merlin rests his book on his stomach and looks up at the ceiling. “She walked in on me putting my clothes away. A t-shirt hit her in the back of the head when she walked in.” Merlin laughs to himself. “The look on her face was priceless; she didn’t immediately assume magic, so she couldn’t understand how I could be sitting on my bed and hit her in the back of the head while she was in the doorway.”

Gwen laughs. “Sounds a bit like Freya, yeah.”

“She wasn’t afraid, though,” says Merlin. “She laughed it off and asked me to show her something else.” Merlin smiles sadly. “I didn’t have to be careful around her.”

“You don’t have to be careful around me,” Gwen promises. Merlin smiles sadly at her and goes back to his book.

Easter is lonely for Arthur. It’s not that he’s alone—he goes to his father’s as he always has. But the conversation feels so forced, so formal, that Arthur almost prefers the heavy silence that comes when he and his father are chewing.

“Work is going well?” Uther asks. If anyone else had asked, Arthur would assume the best, but this is Uther, so he chooses his words carefully.

“Well enough, I suppose,” he says. “I’ve not had any more problems.”

“Good to hear,” says Uther. “Especially now you’ve finished your degree, you’ll have to be careful to leave your…politics out of things.”

“There’s no way to be completely objective about history,” Arthur says.

“Yes, your writing proved that.”

Arthur snaps his head up to look at his father. “What? You read it?”

“Of course I read it.” Uther gestures with his wineglass. “It was well written, though it lacked depth. With your ability to bend the truth, I think you’d be quite talented as a novelist.”

Arthur flushes, but forces back his embarrassment. “I’ll add it to my list of talents,” he mumbles.

For a brief moment, Arthur considers mentioning the history texts. _Why didn’t you tell me about this?_ he wants to ask. Instead, he keeps quiet and tries not to envision Morgana punching him repeatedly in the face for being a coward.

*

“How’d dinner with your dad go?” Merlin asks, smiling on the screen.

“It went the same way every meal with my father goes,” Arthur says. “Clattering plates and backhanded compliments.”

“That was very poetic.” Merlin teases. “Have you ever thought of being a poet?”

Arthur laughs humorlessly. “You’re the second one to suggest that today; I’m beginning to think I think I’ve missed my calling.”

Merlin gives him a mildly sympathetic look. “I shouldn’t joke. Morgana said it was the first year you’d had to endure that alone.”

“Not the first, no. After she got pregnant, Morgana and my father were so upset with each other she didn’t even come to Christmas; went to visit her sister in Mercia instead,” says Arthur. “After a while, you get used to being verbally torn to shreds over a glass over very expensive wine.”

“Why do you put up with him? Why do you work so hard to please him if all he does is make you feel like shit?” Merlin asks, frowning.

“It’s not as easy for me as it is for her,” Arthur says, running a hand over the side of his face. “The Penn family has always been against magic—it’s said we’re descended from the Pendragons themselves. My father taught me sorcery is not to be trusted. My mother wasn’t has loathing of it, but she was wary. When she died, my father needed something to focus on, so he focused on editing history and occasionally forgetting he had a son.”

Morgana and her mother had appeared in Arthur’s life like someone had willed them into existence. For a while, they’d felt a bit like a family. Uther had stopped sleeping at work, too enamored by his new wife and daughter to even fathom working late, and Arthur had been pleased. Well, until Vivienne admitted to sleeping with another man and disappeared from their lives with a flourish of divorce papers.

But that’s not Arthur’s story to tell. He turns so he’s lying on his stomach and goes on.

“Morgana was hopeless from the start.” Arthur smiles. “Her sister Morgause fancies herself a sorceress.” Arthur says _Morgause_ the same way he’d say something particularly unpleasant like _colonoscopy_ or _Yersinia pestis_. “They’re very close, so Morgana was always going to see sorcerers as people instead of vermin. She was always going to hate my father.” 

 “Morgana doesn’t hate Uther. She wouldn’t have put up with him so long if she hated him.” Merlin’s response surprises Arthur. He hadn’t been looking for pity—okay, maybe a little bit of pity would have been nice—but he hadn’t been expecting anger.

“Merlin—“

“A lot of what she does is to keep Mordred safe, but some of it is to keep Uther from doing something he’d regret, though that didn’t work very well in the end. But to suggest things are _easier_ for her because she’s always going to hate your father is immature at best. At worst it’s—“

“Merlin!”

“Sorry,” Merlin says once his brain has caught up to his mouth. “I shouldn’t have said all that; it’s not my family.”

“No, it’s not.”

When he speaks, Merlin’s voice is quieter, and Arthur wonders if maybe he should have phrased his response differently. “I’m sorry. I just…you should know disagreeing with your father doesn’t make you a bad son.”

“That’s not how he’ll see it,” Arthur says. “Look, I didn’t want to argue. Tell me about Ealdor. Is it horribly boring living in the middle of nowhere?”

Merlin rolls his eyes, but thankfully, he moves on.

Things change when term begins. At first, it’s just the history students—Gwen tells Merlin he was the topic of conversation (and heated debate) in most of her classes. Merlin hopes, briefly that the news will stay contained, but they live on a small campus in a small town; before the end of the first week, everybody in Ealdor knows.

The students whisper about him, stare at him as he walks past. It’s similar to how they’d reacted after Freya’s death. But it’s not the same. Then, people had pitied him, and the looks had gotten irritating after a while, but he hadn’t felt _hated_. It’s clear, as he walks through campus and goes to his classes, that his classmates hate him almost as much as they fear him. Merlin’s never been feared before. He’s not sure he likes it.

“Merlin,” Gwen hisses one day as they walk toward the dining hall. “You’re frosting the grass.”

Merlin glances behind them. Students on the grass look around in panic as the ground around them freezes. Merlin undoes the spell with a murmured word.

“You’ve been doing things like that all week,” Gwen says. “But somehow, I didn’t know about your magic.” 

“I thought I’d gotten better at controlling myself,” Merlin mutters. “Come on, I think they’re serving something palatable today.”

He goes to the music building later that evening. He walks quickly with his head down and his hands in his pockets; they’d started glowing just before his last class had ended.

The silence of the building is unsettling as Merlin hurries to the practice room he prefers. It’s been labeled _Piano Majors Only!_ since Merlin’s been here, but with a murmured word, the door unlocks and Merlin slips inside.

Merlin flips on the light and sets his bag beside a filing cabinet stacked with music. He ignores the stack, opting instead for the Beethoven piece Gaius had shoved into his hands on his way out the door last January.

He sets the music on the piano and adjusts the bench. His magic is right at the surface of his skin, unhappy with being forced back all day when he’s been so anxious. For a moment, Merlin’s tempted to skip his warm up exercises altogether; he imagines Gaius’ look of intense disapproval and quickly reconsiders.

His hands don’t want to cooperate after spending most of the day clenched in his pockets, but by the time he’s reached the second page, his quavers have stopped feeling erratic. He uses his magic to turn the page, but is careful to keep his magic otherwise locked away.

This is about control, he can hear Gaius saying. If he’d just controlled his magic, he wouldn’t be in this mess. _They can’t do anything to you unless you use your magic_ , Arthur’s voice says in the back of Merlin’s mind. _Promise me you won’t use your magic, Merlin._ Control yourself.

Behind him, Merlin hears wind; wind and the sound of paper whipping around the room. 

 _Control your magic, Merlin_.

He didn’t ask for this. He’d never asked to be Emrys; he’d never asked for magic that made him so dangerous to others that he’d nearly had to be homeschooled as a child. Merlin had never asked for a father too caught up in his politics to care about the family he had at home.

He’d never asked for Freya to die. He’d wanted them to be together forever—it was childish, Merlin knows that now—and then she was gone. She was gone and Merlin was here.

The piece ends too quickly and too loudly. It’s only then Merlin realizes he’s shaking. He’s shaking with anger, exhaustion, and something close to hysteria that he should ask Gaius about sometime. Wiping his hands on his jeans, he turns and gives a shout of surprise.

Gwen stands beside the cabinet, staring at him.  She shakes herself and smiling apologetically, says, “That’s coming along nicely.”

Merlin blinks.

“I thought you might be here. The door was unlocked, so I came in as quietly as possible. It’s quite frightening—not frightening, I didn’t mean frightening—when your eyes glow like that.” Gwen digs through her bag. “I brought you a sandwich.”

“We’re not supposed to eat in here,” Merlin says. His voice is hoarser than usual, but at least it’s not shaking.

“Right, we wouldn’t want to get sandwich in the piano,” says Gwen, stepping carefully over pages of sheet music until she finds a place to sit on the floor. “You’re very good.”

“You’ve heard me play before,” Merlin says quietly, turning back to the keys.

“I heard you play last year at that Christmas party after someone found out you could play piano and forced you to play carols until midnight.” Gwen laughs. “Could you play something?”

Merlin sighs petulantly. “What would you want to hear? Probably best not to pick anything too intense; wouldn’t want you getting a paper cut.”

The joke falls flat, but Gwen manages to crack a smile anyway. “My mum played Chopin when it rained,” she says. “She liked one of his nocturnes.”

“There are twenty-one Chopin nocturnes,” says Merlin. Gwen makes a face.

“Play any of them, I don’t mind,” she says, and Merlin plays.

*

The night the inevitable happens is a clear Wednesday night. Merlin zips his coat as he walks and wishes ‘humid’ was synonymous with ‘warm.’

Something small bounces off the back of his head, and Merlin turns instinctively. When he sees two boys his age snickering behind him, he shrugs it off; boys can be dicks.

Then, another pebble hits him. And another. And _another_ until Merlin turns again.

“Right guys, you’ve had your fun,” he says, too afraid for the cheer in voice to sound anything but forced. “Let’s just call it a night, yeah?”

“What’re you going to do about it, _Emrys_?” one asks. Merlin flinches at the hatred in the man’s voice and turns, walking quickly. If he pulls his hands from his pockets and clenches his fingers, well, no one’s there to see.

“Where are you going? Are you _scared_ , Emrys?”

Merlin hears something larger being thrown and quickly shouts, “ _Bescylde!”_

When a glass bottle shatters against the shield where Merlin’s eye would have been, he drops all pretense of bravery and runs.

Arthur wakes on his couch to the sound of his mobile ringing. He blinks, rubbing his eyes as he fumbles around for his glasses.

“Yeah?” he says once he finds his phone. “Arthur Penn speaking.”

“I have a problem,” Merlin says. Arthur sits up. “I was going to call mum, but she’s on a plane to fucking _Italy_ and Lance and Gwen have a Skype night and Gaius is either asleep or—“

“Merlin? What are you—? Slow down.”

“They threw a bottle at me and I ran, but they ran faster. And then—“ Merlin stops talking and for a moment, all Arthur can hear is heavy breathing.

“Merlin,” Arthur says very seriously. “What happened?”

“Um, I don’t really remember. Everything goes a bit fuzzy after that.”

Arthur swears quietly under his breath. “What do you remember?” he asks.

Merlin pauses for a moment, and then says, “I remember thinking I was out of shape. I was slowing down, and they knew it, but before they could really _do_ anything, my magic took over. I remember them shouting, but I don’t remember what I did, or what happened to them.”

“Where are you now?” Arthur asks.

“In my flat,” Merlin says. “My hands hurt. Should they hurt? They’ve never hurt like this before.”

On the phone, Merlin continues to panic, his voice shaking as he imagines all the things the university—hell, the _public_ —is going to do to him.

“Merlin, you need to calm down,” says Arthur. “Is there anything you can do that’ll help you relax?”

“Piano, usually,” Merlin responds. “But I haven’t got a piano! I told you that ages ago and—“

“Yes, you did.” Arthur interrupts calmly. “But you’ve got headphones and an extensive collection of music in your possession, don’t you?”

“It’s not _extensive_.”

“If it’s not big enough, I’m here to kindly remind you that the internet does, in fact, exist.”

“God, even when I’m having a crisis, you’re a prat.”

“It’s in my nature,” Arthur says, getting up to make a cup of tea in the kitchen. “Do you have class tomorrow?”

“I wasn’t really planning on going,” Merlin says. Arthur thinks he may have been trying for sarcasm, but sounds far more hopeless than anything.

“That’s probably for the best. When we have incidents on our campus, it’s usually recommended the student not come into school until they hear from either the head or from their teacher.”

Merlin groans, and Arthur hears him typing before orchestral music begins to play in the background. “I don’t know what to do, Arthur,” he says. “What should I—am I going to be arrested?”

“Well, it’s a possibility,” Arthur sighs. “Especially because you can’t remember what happened. At the very least, you’ll have to talk to someone in the head office—probably the vice chancellor.”

“I should probably call my mum, shouldn’t I?”

“Yeah, probably,” says Arthur, pouring water into a mug. “You said she was on a plane to Italy. Will she be able to make it back if something goes wrong?”

“Hopefully, we won’t have to find out,” Merlin says dejectedly. “I’ll talk to you later. Thanks for…thanks.”

“It’s no problem,” Arthur says. “Just be careful, Merlin.”

“Easier said than done, Arthur,” Merlin sighs. He hangs up the phone before Arthur has a chance to say anything else.

Merlin barely sleeps that night. Even as he listens through five different concertos and drinks what feels like endless amounts of tea (his mother had always made him tea when he was upset. He’s not sure how well it works), Merlin can’t help imagining the police kicking down the door to his flat.

His mother calls him back at around four am.

“I can’t fly back just yet,” she says apologetically after a good ten minutes of telling him he should be sleeping at this hour. “Will you be alright, little hawk?”

That’s when Merlin knows she’d walk back to Essetir if he asked her to; she hasn’t called him that since he was in primary school. Merlin sighs into the phone.

“I think so,” Merlin says. “I’m scared, mostly.”

“You’d be a fool not to be scared, Merlin,” Hunith says. “I’ll be home as quick as I can, but you know I’m just a phone call away. And you can always call Gaius.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“And try to get some sleep. It’s going to be a rough couple days for you.”

Merlin feels a bit better when he hangs up the phone, but he still doesn’t sleep.

The letter shoved into his mailbox is both unsurprising (he’s seen the head office’s seal so many times in the past few weeks, it’s practically tattooed into his mind) and surprising (what was that? Four hours?). Merlin stares down at it like it’s going to explode.

In the end, the letter doesn’t say anything he doesn’t expect. The ‘altercation’ has been reported, the two gentlemen—Merlin snorts at that—have decided not to press charges, but he will be disciplined by the university for the use of his magic against another student. He has a meeting the next day at ten am.

Hysterically, Merlin wonders if maybe he should begin writing up his will. He hasn’t got much, though he’d prefer it if his sheet music went to Mordred. Maybe his computer could go to Gwen, or he could have it destroyed…

Merlin slumps against the back of the couch.  April is quickly becoming his least favorite month.

*

Vice-Chancellor Muirden’s office smells too clean. Merlin sits in the waiting room—why does he have to wait if he’s _on time_ —wondering if the smell of new carpeting can kill a person. Then, he wonders if nerves can kill a person and has to clench his hands into fists to keep them from shaking.

“Mr. Emerson?” He looks up to see a blonde woman smiling kindly at him. She nods, “Mr. Muirden will see you now.”

Vice-Chancellor Muirden is a person Merlin’s only seen in crowded rooms or in pictures. He’d been intimidating when Merlin was surrounded by 1500 new students, and he’s no less intimidating now.

“Sit,” he says.

Merlin sits in the leather back chair, trying not to make a face at how stiff it is. Correct posture isn’t a foreign concept to him, but this chair was probably made with medieval torture devices in mind.

Muirden looks up from whatever he’s scrawling. “You don’t look like a mad, power hungry sorcerer.”

“What?” Merlin says before he can stop himself. This isn’t really where he saw this going. “I mean—sorry, sir.”

“What can you tell me about that night, Mr. Emerson?”

Merlin wipes his hands nervously on his trousers, not missing the ways Muirden’s eyes warily follow the movement.

“I, um, I lost track of time in the music building, so it was nearly midnight when I started walking home. There were these two guys who started throwing things at me. I tried to ignore it, but eventually asked them to stop.” Merlin swallows. The truth is always the best way to go, he reminds himself. “I didn’t resort to magic until they threw the bottle—and it was only a shield. And then I ran, but I don’t remember much after that.”

“I see. Do you remember the spell you used to protect yourself from the bottle?”

Merlin shakes his head. “I don’t, sir. Sometimes, spells just come to me when I need them. I don’t remember anything I did after I started running.”

“Would you like to see?”

“What?”

“Sophia, if you could bring in the video,” Muirden says into the speaker of his phone. A moment later, the blonde woman from earlier hurries in carrying a tape.

She fiddles with a television on the opposite side of the room. When a blurry image appears on the screen, Sophia steps back.

“This video was thankfully relinquished by the owner of a nearby shop.” Muirden nods at the screen, and obediently, Merlin watches.

On screen, Merlin sees himself run into an alleyway. The two guys follow him in and, though there’s no sound, Merlin can tell they’re saying something—shouting it, really. Even with the less than spectacular picture quality, Merlin can see his eyes glowing as he turns.

The two guys back up when Merlin raises his hand. Between his palms, there’s a small ball of fire, and Merlin remembers how badly his hands had hurt that night.

The fire hovers, growing into a shield. Then, with a bright flash of light, the tape ends.

“It’s a wonder they weren’t killed,” Sophia says. When Merlin and Muirden glance over at her, she flushes and excuses herself from the room.

“Quite an impressive show, Mr. Emerson,” Muirden says, switching off the video. Merlin isn’t sure if he should thank him or apologize.

“I don’t remember any of that,” he says. “Are those…are those boys alright? They didn’t get hurt did they?”

“For such an uncontrolled display of magic, you were incredibly restrained. All the two received were singed eyebrows.”

Merlin gives a sigh of relief and, for the first time since he’s entered this office, relaxes against the back of the hard leather chair.

“Be that as it may,” Muirden continues, “the fact you did all of this unintentionally, and that you were unable to remember any of it afterwards, shows you are a danger to our students, our staff, and the citizens of Ealdor.”

Merlin’s heart sinks.

“While I cannot force you from Ealdor, I am able to keep my campus safe.” He leans back in his chair. “You have twenty-four hours to vacate your living quarters. If we catch you on this campus after those twenty-four hours, you _will_ be arrested. Do you understand?”

“I—“ Merlin swallows thickly, feeling a bit like he’d just been punched in the stomach.

“You should be grateful we’re not having you thrown into prison, Merlin,” Muirden says apologetically. “I’m afraid my hands are tied.”

“I understand, sir,” Merlin murmurs, standing. “Thank you for your time.”

When Sophia smiles and says, “Have a nice day!” Merlin barely resists vanishing her paperwork.

*

When he gets home, Merlin calls his mum. She consoles him, reminds him she’ll be back in the country in a few days, and insists packing will keep his mind occupied for a while.

Merlin tosses his phone onto the couch and looks around his flat.

His school books are stacked haphazardly on different surfaces. His laptop is sitting on his couch where he’d left it before the meeting that morning. He looks around, surprised at how much stuff he suddenly seems to have.

After pulling the boxes he’d used to move in from the back of his closet, Merlin sits on his living floor and begins stacking his books into neat piles. He doesn’t call Arthur.

He’s halfway through packing his clothes—has he always had this many clothes?—when his phone rings in the living room. Merlin contemplates ignoring it, then figures it might be Gaius, or his mother, or the university calling to let him know they’re having him arrested after all.

It turns out to be Gwen.

“You haven’t been to classes or into the student center in days. I just wanted to be sure everything was alright,” she says. “People keep saying you’ve been arrested.”

“Oh, no, it’s not all that bad,” Merlin says brightly. “I’ve only been expelled.”

At that, Gwen makes a strange sound that sounds a bit like an outraged cat. Merlin doesn’t have a chance to ask if she’s alright because a moment later, the call ends. Briefly, Merlin wonders if he should call back, but instead tucks his phone into his pocket and goes back to packing.

Gwen shows up forty minutes later, bag over her shoulder. When Merlin opens the door, she pushes past him and almost immediately trips over a box on the floor.

“You’ve been expelled?! Why have you been expelled? Why didn’t you tell me?” she sets her bag beside the couch. Merlin calmly closes the door.

“You’re packing,” she says. “You’re actually packing.” She covers her face with her hands. Merlin sits beside her and, only a little awkwardly, rubs her back.  “What happened?” she asks.

Gwen’s quiet as Merlin tells the story and is quiet for a long moment after that. When she asks if he’d been expelled for self-defense, the idea of it seems to outrage her, and Merlin’s rather thankful to have someone in Ealdor on his side.

He stands and resumes packing. “Really, it sounded like it was because I couldn’t remember anything. I saw a tape, and the spell I used was so powerful that my hands hurt for hours afterwards, but I still don’t remember what spell it was.”

“So you’re really leaving?” Gwen asks.

“Yeah,” Merlin sighs. “I have to be out by tomorrow morning. Gaius says I can work for him while I figure out what to do—or until I want to stop.” Merlin shrugs. “It’s not all bad; just different.”

“We should get you packed, then.” Gwen forces a smile—it’s the same smile she gets around finals, or when she has a cold and wants to convince people everything’s fine—but it’s comforting to Merlin all the same.

Eventually, Gwen ends up falling asleep on the couch while Merlin cleans his kitchen. At around three am, he glances at the clock and tries to decide if he should sleep or clean his bathroom. He settles for having his magic clean the bathroom. And if he doesn’t put as much effort into it as usual, well, it’s not as if he’s getting his deposit back anyway.

By six am, the flat doesn’t feel like his flat anymore. The walls are bare, and all of his belongings are neatly (thanks to Gwen’s insistence that they wouldn’t close unless he folded his clothes) into about ten different boxes. Merlin curls beneath his blanket on his naked mattress and tries very hard to fall asleep.

He wakes up to the sound of someone knocking loudly on the door. He groans, struggling to sit up; he’s only been asleep for a little over an hour. Through the peephole, he sees Morgana standing in the hallway. She’s dressed more casually than Merlin thinks he’s ever seen, even with her hair pulled into a neat pony-tail and dark sunglasses perched on her nose. Merlin opens the door.

“Where’s Gaius?”

“I was coming this way, so I offered to pick you up,” Morgana says. “Anyway, it’s a difficult trip for a man as old as Gaius to make. Did you honestly expect him to help carry boxes? Nonsense.”  She breezes past him into the flat, Mordred following closely behind her. 

“Hello, Merlin! Mum says we’re going to help you move.”

“Hi, Mordred,” Merlin says a bit dazedly, closing the door. “Did you happen to see Gwen while you were down there? She stayed over last night.”

“No, we didn’t. She must have left earlier,” says Morgana. She turns to smile at Merlin, who’s careful to make sure he doesn’t look as hurt as he feels by Gwen’s absence.

It takes Merlin—and Mordred, who’d “helped” by making the boxes lighter for Merlin to carry—fifteen minutes to get the boxes to the car. He focuses so much on not tripping on the stairs that he doesn’t realize how quickly his flat empties. When he walks in the last time, Morgana’s holding Mordred’s coat and has Merlin’s bag over her shoulder.

“Ready to go?” she asks.

Merlin looks around at his now empty flat. His stomach lurches unpleasantly and, for an insane moment, he wonders what would happen if he just _refused to leave_. He’s the Emrys; he could stop them with a snap of his fingers—less than that, probably.

“Merlin?” Morgana says.  She smiles comfortingly—as intimidating as she is, Morgana’s surprisingly good at comforting people, Merlin thinks—and pushes him gently out the door. “It’ll be alright.”

He nods jerkily and, with a loud click, the door closes and locks behind them.

Gwen’s waiting when they get downstairs. She looks winded, but she smiles when she spots them. “I went to get breakfast. I didn’t realize you’d be leaving so early.” And her smile slips. “I got breakfast sandwiches.”

“You’re not eating that in my car,” Morgana says, eyeing the sandwich warily. “Mordred and I will wait in the car. Take your time.”

“She’s nicer than I thought she’d be,” Gwen says, watching Morgana walk away.

“She feels bad for me.”

They eat their sandwiches on the front steps of the building in silence. The sun’s still low on the horizon, and the air is cold enough Merlin can see their breath. They eat slowly; Gwen may be from Camelot, but she and Merlin both know it’s going to be a while before they see each other. But even with how slowly they eat, their sandwiches inevitably disappear.

“I should have got coffee,” Gwen jokes. And without another word, she pulls Merlin into a tight hug. “I’m going to miss you.”

“It won’t be all that different,” Merlin says, aware of Gwen’s trying to hide her crying in his shoulder. “And you live in Camelot, so it’s not as if we’ll never see each other again. And I could visit.”

“No you couldn’t,” Gwen says sadly.

Ealdor is the university’s town. While the main campus exists, it’s generally accepted that Ealdor University and Ealdor the town are one in the same. For the first time in his life, Merlin’s not going to be able to come home.

“No, I couldn’t.” Merlin stands and brushes his hands on his trousers. He’s still wearing the same clothes as yesterday: a dark red dress shirt and a dark pair of trousers. The shirt is wrinkled.

Morgana doesn’t say anything when Merlin climbs into the passenger seat. In the side view mirror, he sees Gwen standing beside her car, waving goodbye.

When he gets to Camelot that afternoon, he moves his things in, calls Arthur, and falls asleep to Gaius playing Chopin in the other room.

“So what are you going to do?”

Arthur and Merlin are sitting on Merlin’s bed, watching Shaun of the Dead on Merlin’s laptop while eating some truly awful chocolates Arthur had brought over. (When he’d arrived, Arthur had said something along the lines of, “There’s no guide for what to do when your boyfriend gets expelled from uni.” Merlin had given him a long look and let him in.)

Merlin shrugs. He’d learned after his father’s death that people were more likely to leave him alone if he pretended not to be as bothered. If he stayed quiet long enough, eventually, they’d answer their questions for him.

“Morgana said you’d be helping Gaius.”

Merlin shrugs again. “Yeah, I guess,” he says. Arthur gives him a look and bumps Merlin’s shoulder with his own.

“Don’t do that, Merlin,” Arthur says quietly.

“Oh, right. Sorry,” Merlin says very sarcastically. “What I meant to say was that I know exactly what I’m doing now your father’s gotten me chucked out of school.” When Arthur looks away, hurt, Merlin sighs, but doesn’t apologize. He figures he’s allowed a bit of anger, even if it wasn’t directly Arthur’s fault he’s no longer in university.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” he says. “I’d rather not stay here; I don’t feel very safe.”

“It’s plenty safe,” Arthur scoffs like he’s the one who’d been outed as a sorcerer in a country where sorcery was disliked at best. “No one here knows what you look like.”

“Yeah, for now,” Merlin mutters.

“I am sorry, Merlin,” Arthur says quietly a while later. Merlin wants to assure him it’s not his fault, that everything will be fine soon enough. Instead, he eats another chocolate and watches Bill Nighy get his throat torn out by a zombie.

Arthur is livid.

He’d thought, after all of the drama that’d happened over Christmas, he’d be able to sit through any and all of his father’s diatribes. This turns out not to be the case.

Sometime after tense greetings and an even tenser conversation over expensive scotch—the only scotch Uther Penn allows into his home—Arthur begins to understand why Morgana was always so angry.

His father is far more amicable—he’d even go as far to say _cheerful_ , which is a word Arthur rarely associates with his father—than usual, and Arthur’s sure his good mood has something to do with Merlin’s expulsion.

“God, would you _stop_?” Arthur asks, surprising himself.

Uther pauses; outbursts like this are rare for Arthur, even if they’d been fairly standard with his sister. “Arthur?”

“Do you even hear yourself when you speak?” Arthur asks. He’s shaking and his heart is in his throat, but all he can think about is how despondent Merlin had been the last time they’d seen each other. “You’ve ruined Merlin’s life,” he says.

“ _Merlin_ ruined his own life,” Uther says calmly. “The university acted as they saw fit.”

“The university acted as _you_ saw fit,” says Arthur. “You throw your money and your power around until you get what you want.”

“Excuse me,” Uther says, and Arthur knows what he’s thinking. _I will not be spoken to like this_. “I am your father!”

“And you are a coward.”

That gets a reaction from his father, even if it’s a very small one. He leans forward and very deliberately sets his cutlery on the edge of his plate. “I have done what’s best for our family and for Camelot. He attacked those boys. He is dangerous and—“

“You’re far more dangerous than he’ll ever be,” says Arthur. “If Camelot needs protecting from anyone, it’s you.”

“Get out.” Uther’s hands are clenched into fists, and Arthur knows he’s gone too far. Still, someone has to tell his father these things; it was a lot easier when it was Morgana.

Arthur stands and for a very brief, ludicrous moment, Arthur feels like he should bow. Instead, he carefully pushes his in his chair and walks silently—confidently; shoulders back, head up, eyes straight ahead—from the room.

*

Nothing’s changed when Arthur gets home. The coursework he’d been grading earlier that day sits in a vaguely untidy stack on his coffee table, and his jumper is still lying over the back of the couch where he’d tossed it when he’d realized how late he was going to be to lunch.

Still, Arthur feels like his world has been shifted just _slightly_ to the left. He’s never been the perfect son his father had wanted, but at least he’d tried. He’d tried to do what his father had wanted him to do, had tried to agree even when he knew his father was wrong. He’s not Morgana; he’s not prepared for this.

After a few minutes of pacing his apartment, he decides moping is boring—he’s always been very proactive in his angst—and calls Morgana.

“Hello?” she says. In the background, Arthur can hear voices and things being moved.

“Father kicked me out at lunch,” Arthur says.

“It’s a good thing you’ve got your own place, then, isn’t it?”

“Morgana.”

“What happened?”

Arthur tells her the story from the beginning, trying not to sound too petulant.

“Well, it’s about time,” Morgana says once Arthur’s finished speaking.

“What?” he says, a bit surprised. To be honest, he’s a bit hurt; he hadn’t been expecting sympathy, but he also hadn’t been expecting Morgana to be so frank in her response.

“I’m not going to congratulate you for doing something you should have done months ago, Arthur. If you’d spoken up at Christmas, Merlin might still be at uni.” Despite her sharp words, Morgana’s voice is sympathetic.

“I didn’t really call so you could make me feel worse, Morgana.”

“Then you shouldn’t have called me,” she says, and Arthur has to agree she has a point. “Look, Arthur, I know you’re having a rough time, but you did the right thing. Anyway, now Uther’s disowned me, you’re the only one he can give his money to; you’re fine.”

Arthur resists the urge to ask how she’s such a good mother to Mordred when she can’t even sympathize with him properly. “I’m not all that worried about the money,” he says. And he isn’t, because as much as he hates the way his father can be, Uther’s still his father.

“I know,” sighs Morgana. “Why don’t you come over? Merlin’s here. He and Mordred are going to give me a little concert later. It’ll be fun and it’ll take your mind off of everything.”

Maybe it’s the guilt trip Morgana had given him, or maybe it’s the sheer exhaustion from the showdown with his father, but being around Merlin sounds like the last thing Arthur wants to do tonight. “I think I’ll pass,” he says.

When he looks at the stack of papers on his coffee table, Arthur wonders if it’s humanly possible to sleep for a week.

A few weeks into Merlin’s stay in Camelot—if he thinks of it as a ‘stay’ rather than a permanent residency, it doesn’t hurt as much—he finds himself spending a surprising amount of time with Morgana. Well, he spends time with Morgana when he isn’t teaching Gaius’ students.

It turns out not all seven year olds are able to play piano as well as Mordred. More than once, Gaius has to remind Merlin that very few students have the gift—at this, Merlin scoffs—of magic aiding them. Merlin reminds Gaius that the level of music Mordred is playing is higher than the other students his age, but Gaius just raises his eyebrow until Merlin goes back to his room.

Arthur’s right about how safe Camelot is for Merlin. While people know Merlin is Emrys, very few people actually know who Merlin is. As long as he doesn’t give out his full name, or tell people where he’s from, everything’s fine.

 _Fine_ doesn’t mean Merlin’s happy.

He’s careful. When he meets the parents of the six children he has to teach piano, Merlin lies about why he’s not in uni. If he buys something, he’s careful to use cash. He doesn’t talk about where he’s from, his parents, or even piano.

He’s safe and unhappy, but Merlin’s getting quite good at being unhappy.

“Do you like it here?” Arthur asks one night as they walk around downtown Camelot. It’s warm enough now that Merlin doesn’t need much more than a light jacket, even at night.

“It’s nice,” Merlin says. “Very pretty, but—“

“But what?” Arthur asks a bit impatiently.

“Nothing,” says Merlin. “It’s fine. I like it here.”

He likes Camelot the same way he likes dogs: they’re very nice in theory, but in reality, they’re loud and messy and tend to smell a bit funny when they get wet.  He’s never wanted a dog, and he’s never wanted to live in a place as large and as noisy as Camelot.

“Do you know if you’re going to go back to school?”

“Where would I go, Arthur?” Merlin snaps. “I’m sure Camelot’s university would _love_ to have me.”

“Fine,” says Arthur. “Forget I said anything.”

“Arthur—“

“Come on, we’re going to be late. Gwaine said seven-thirty and it’s nearly seven-fifteen.” Arthur walks ahead, intent on being on time as usual. Merlin trails behind him, unsure if the emotion he’s feeling is irritation or regret.

*

Merlin’s mum comes up to visit in the middle of June. She finds Merlin going through a pile of piano music, searching for a piece for one of his students to play. The girl is a little older than Mordred, and needs help with playing two rhythms at once.

When the door clicks quietly shut, Merlin looks up and smiles at his mum. She hasn’t changed much, he’s pleased to see. Her hair’s a bit shorter and she looks a bit tired, but there’s nothing drastic.

Hunith doesn’t ask if Merlin’s doing alright. She doesn’t tell him about how great her job is going or give him the rundown of whatever it was she and Gaius had been talking about in the other room. She sits beside him on the floor, sighs as she stretches her legs out in front of her, and doesn’t say a word. She and Merlin sit in comfortable silence until Merlin’s sorted out the music he needs and carefully makes a copy using his magic.

“That spell would save me so much time,” Hunith says. “Writing out recipes is time consuming.” Merlin stands, limbs popping as usual, and goes to reshelve the music.

“I lost a lot of time learning it,” he responds, sitting beside his mother on the floor. “It was worth it.”

“Hm.” Hunith hums in agreement. “Gaius says you’ve helped him a lot with his students.”

Merlin shrugs. “It’s something to do.”

He doesn’t mean to sound as pessimistic as he does. In the back of his mind, he knows that even if he’d been able to force optimism on the subject, his mother would be able to see right through it; she’d always had the uncanny ability to tell when he was lying, even when it was about the most mundane things.

“Are you happy here, Merlin?” she asks. Merlin looks down and picks at the carpeting. “Merlin,” his mum says. “Are you happy here?”

Merlin wants to say yes. He could be happy here, he thinks. He could settle for hiding his magic. There are some things he loves about Camelot: Arthur, Morgana, and Mordred, for example. To his surprise, he rather likes teaching piano. He’s alright—one might even make an argument for content—but he isn’t happy.

He’s not sure how to explain this to his mother.

“I feel a bit trapped,” Merlin says. “I think I’m just waiting for something else to go wrong.”

“You don’t have to stay here, Merlin.” Hunith tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I was thinking we could travel.”

“Travel?” says Merlin doubtfully.

“For a year or so,” she says. “I’d like to learn about different cuisines, and you could learn about different kinds of magic. We’re not the only place with sorcerers, right?  While I was in Italy, I saw magic shops on the streets.  You wouldn’t have to hide your power there.”

“Mum, we can’t just move to Italy.”

“Then we’ll call it an extended holiday.” Hunith kicks Merlin lightly in the leg. Merlin notices her socks are mismatched. “We haven’t had a holiday since you were a little boy. We could go to other places, as well. I’ve always wanted to see Luxembourg.”

“Alright,” Merlin says, because there are worse things than going on an _extended holiday_ through Europe for a year.

“Alright?”

Merlin smiles at his mother. “Yeah, it’s a good idea. Let’s do it.”

Hunith pulls Merlin into a tight hug, then leaves the room. Merlin catches his reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall; notices how tired his reflection looks, and wonders how much damage a year can do to a person.

When Arthur was growing up, he’d taken trips with his mother to visit his father at the building for King's Publishing. It’d been overwhelming then, and it’s just as overwhelming now, even as the security guard at the front desk nods as Arthur walks past. He doesn’t have to show ID here; people know whose son he is.

Arthur takes the lift to the top floor where his father’s office has been since Arthur was a child. He greets Mary, the ancient woman who’s been working as his father’s secretary since…Arthur’s not really sure, and knocks hesitantly on the door of his father’s office.

“Enter,” Uther calls. Arthur rolls his eyes; of course _come in_ is too plebian for someone like his father. He pushes the door open and shuts it quietly behind him.

“Hello father.”

“Arthur, this is a surprise.” Uther doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t frown or throw anything, so Arthur figures he’s in the clear.

He sits in one of the chairs across from Uther’s desk. Uther asks him benign questions about his job—but not about his day, which is of no importance to Uther—and Arthur hedges for a while until he finally says, “That’s actually why I’m here.”

“Oh?” says Uther. He glances over a document, then scrawls his signature at the bottom and sets his pen in its holder. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve handed in my resignation,” Arthur says, pleased he doesn’t stammer. His voice shakes a bit, but he’s sure his father doesn’t notice. 

Uther smoothly raises his eyebrows. “And why have you resigned? So help me, if it has anything to do with the Emrys—“

“It doesn’t have anything to do with Merlin,” Arthur says firmly. “My reasons are my own, but I thought you’d like to know before Sigan sends out the ravens or whatever you two use to communicate.”

“We use emails and telephones,” Uther says drily. “My last ravens had an unfortunate encounter with a hang glider.”

Arthur’s laugh surprises him. His father tilts his head and Arthur thinks he smiles for a moment, but before he can be sure, the expression has returned to its normal state. Arthur stands.

“That was all I came to tell you. I have to get going. Have a nice evening.”

“Arthur,” Uther says just before Arthur opens the door. Arthur turns. “You’re sure this is what you want?”

“I’m sure.”

Uther taps his pen against the desk. “If you’re sure about this, I’ll trust you to make your own decisions. I’ll see you Sunday.”

His father goes back to scrawling things on paperwork, leaving Arthur to see himself out.

The following week, Hunith goes back to Engerd to sort out her job—she’s insisting that she’s _not quitting_. She’s taking an indefinite holiday—and Merlin works on getting a passport.

It’s surprisingly easy, even if he has to check a box that says _Yes, I have practiced magic in the last 6 months._ And when it asks him what he’s done, he lists most of it—he doesn’t mention what had happened over Christmas or in April, figuring his application is going to be stalled enough as it is. 

The woman gives him a double take after she reads his name, and after that she barely makes eye contact. But she doesn’t make any comments, and when Merlin hands over his paperwork, she taps something out on the computer and tells him to have a nice day.

Merlin pretends that it doesn’t bother him that he and Arthur haven’t spoken in over a week. He knows Arthur’s busy as well—Morgana says her brother has quit his job and is now in a full blown panic as he tries to figure out what to do. Merlin uses this as his excuse not to call, even if it does make him feel awful.

 **_Arthur_Pendragon:_ ** _No one told me how stressful being unemployed is._

 **_MerlinEmrys:_ ** _Term hasn’t ended yet._

 **_MerlinEmrys:_ ** _you still have a job._

 **_Arthur_Pendragon:_ ** _I figure if I get my panicking over with now, I won’t have to do it later._

 **_MerlinEmrys:_ ** _Clearly_

Merlin taps his fingers lightly against the keys, then types out:

 **_MerlinEmrys:_ ** _Do you want to come for dinner saturday?_

Arthur responds slowly; the chat window reads _Arthur_Pendragon is typing…_ long enough that Merlin’s sure Arthur’s typing out a polite refusal.

 **_Arthur_Pendragon:_ ** _Sounds great. 7pm okay?_

 **_MerlinEmrys:_ ** _Yeah, see you then._

And when Merlin signs out, he’s not sure if the weird feeling in his stomach is excitement or anxiety.

*

Lamenting the loss of his tiny, but private flat, Merlin spends most of Saturday convincing Gaius to leave the house for the night. Finally, Gaius concedes, muttering something about someone named Alice. Merlin doesn’t ask him to elaborate, and Gaius doesn’t offer any more information.

When Gaius finally leaves, Merlin cooks. He cooks a rather complicated chicken recipe and, as he does, he directs his magic throughout the house, tidying everything it touches. Even if Arthur doesn’t notice, at least Gaius will be pleased.

Arthur arrives at five to seven and then sits in the driveway until five after seven.

“Fixing your hair?” Merlin says by way of greeting when he opens the door. Arthur laughs, the sound too loud in the quiet house, and leans in to kiss Merlin as he walks in.

“I brought wine and you make fun of my hair.” He toes his shoes off and closes the door behind himself. “It smells good in here. What’re you making?”

“Chicken breast stuffed with artichoke and sundried tomatoes,” Merlin says. He’s relieved to have a reason to leave the entry way. “It’s my mum’s recipe, and her bread; she’ll be disappointed I had to change a bit of the recipe.”

“My lips are sealed,” says Arthur. He sets the wine on the counter and begins digging through the drawers for a bottle opener.

Merlin waves his hand and the bottle opener floats from where it’s sitting beside the stove. It taps itself gently against the side of Arthur’s head until Arthur snatches it from the air with an amused smile.

When the food is ready, Merlin leads the way to the piano room. Technically, he explains as he and Arthur carry their plates carefully into the room, they’re not supposed to have food in here. Eating at the piano—or in this case, the vicinity of the piano—is near the top of the list of Unacceptable Things to Do At Gaius’. It’s part of the reason he was so adamant to get Gaius out of the house.

“So why are we eating in here?” Arthur asks. Merlin carefully sets the bottle of wine on the blanket he’d laid out on the floor and sits cross-legged across from Arthur.

Merlin shrugs. “It felt …” he doesn’t want to say safer, doesn’t want Arthur to worry about why Merlin doesn’t feel safe. “I wanted to do something different. If it’s too weird, we can move--?”

“No,” Arthur says quickly. He rests his hand on Merlin’s knee. “No, it’s nice; very creative.”

For a while, they eat quietly. They’re past the point where small talk in necessary at all times, but in Merlin’s opinion, this is one of the tensest dates he’s had with Arthur, and that even includes the date they’d had when Merlin had first returned to Camelot.

“Arthur,” Merlin says the same time Arthur says,

“Merlin.”

Arthur ducks his head. “You first,” he says.

Merlin’s ended exactly two relationships in his life. The first was in his first year of secondary school. Her name had been Lucy, and she’d had auburn hair. After his mother had convinced him that ignoring Lucy until she went away was incredibly rude, Merlin had broken up with her behind the stairs during their physical education class.

The second was Will. Technically, Will had been the one to break up with Merlin. He’d transferred schools after his mum had died and he’d gone to live with his dad in Ireland. It’d been awkward and had left Merlin in something akin to a depression that hadn’t let up until just before he’d started uni.

He doesn’t count Freya; she was an anomaly.

“No,” Merlin says. “You go.”

Arthur shrugs, and then takes a long drink of wine, and Merlin wonders if maybe he should have set out something nonalcoholic instead. “Okay.” He sets the glass down and looks Merlin straight in the eye. For a moment, Merlin panics, wondering if Arthur’s preparing to propose.

“I want you to move to Mercia with me,” Arthur says.

This is much worse.

“Uh,” says Merlin awkwardly. Arthur’s smile fades a bit.

“I just…I was thinking since you’re not very comfortable in Camelot and I’m going to be out of a job, we could start over together and…” Arthur trails off, watching Merlin move to sit on the piano bench. “It’d be different and scary and—“

“I was going to break up with you,” Merlin interrupts. He runs his hands over the keys, feels his anxious magic relax just at the feel of the keys beneath his fingers. He sighs. “Actually, I am breaking up with you.”

“This is rather awkward,” Arthur mutters.

Merlin turns to face Arthur. “Yeah, I probably should have gone first.” 

“Why?” Arthur asks. He doesn’t make eye contact as he stacks the dishes he and Merlin had used. “I mean, not to sound petulant. I’m wondering—I thought everything was going rather well.”

“It was—it is. It’s been a long year for me, and I think maybe I rushed into all of this a bit too quickly after everything that happened with Freya.” It’s not until Arthur makes a mildly irritated face that Merlin realizes he’s essentially given him the _it’s not you, it’s me_ excuse for ending things. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he says.

“Right,” says Arthur. “Go on.”

“We’re not safe for each other.” Merlin frowns.  “Things have been going wrong ever since we met. And I—we can’t even have sex because I’ll break Camelot and your father will have me arrested.”

Arthur laughs at that, breaking the tension in the room. “We can get around _that_.”

“I don’t react like this with anyone else, Arthur,” says Merlin quietly. “When we first met, I had dreams about you and your family. They went away after a while, but I still don’t know what they mean. My magic is fairly unpredictable as it is, but this scares me. I haven’t lost control of my magic since I was a kid, and it’s happened five times since we met. What if I hurt someone again?”

“You won’t.”

Merlin smiles down at his lap. “Neither of us knows that. Anyway, it’s not just the magic. My mum and I are leaving soon. We’re going on—what did she call it?—an indefinite holiday. I don’t want you—want us—to feel like we’re attached if we aren’t, so I kind of figured it’d be best if we just ended it.”

Arthur kind of shrugs, the movement jerky as he reaches up to push his glasses up his nose, and it’s then Merlin realizes  Arthur’s beginning to agree.

“Well,” says Arthur. “It’s not as if we can’t still be friends, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Merlin agrees.

But it feels a lot like the last day of school, when everyone promises to keep in touch over the summer. In the back of his mind, Merlin knows he and Arthur aren’t going to be friends. They’ll be friendly—Merlin’s planning to help Mordred even if he and Arthur aren’t together—but they won’t be friends.

“Before we officially end our sordid affair, could you do something for me?” Arthur asks, pointedly ignoring the way Merlin incredulously mouths the words _sordid affair_. “Could you play me that dreaming song again? The Schubert one?”

Merlin snorts quietly, because apparently some things never change. “ _Schumann,_ Arthur.” But he turns to face the keys, his back to Arthur.

He pauses for a moment, hands poised over the keys. He knows the piece like the back of his hand, and he figures he shouldn’t be nervous; he’s already played it for Arthur.

This time, he plays the piece more slowly. He focuses on every note, on every rolled chord. He focuses on the press of the pedal beneath his foot and deliberately does not pay attention to the sounds of Arthur moving in the background.

But _Träumerei_ is a short piece, and before Merlin’s ready, the piece is over. Arthur doesn’t say anything as Merlin plays through another piece, and then another after that.

The last piece is measured and, of the Schumann pieces he knows, he wouldn’t call it his favorite; really, he’s not sure why he decides to play it.

In this room, Merlin feels like the notes are dragging something from him. He leans over the keys and, as he plays the dissonant chords, he loses himself in the music. He loses himself until all Merlin knows is his magic and the music vibrating through the wood of the piano.

When the last chord fades and Merlin opens his eyes, the room smells of lightning and Merlin is alone.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Coda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Coda:** a term used in music to designate a passage that brings a piece or movement to an end._

In the end, Arthur meets Mithian.

She's coming from a shop as Arthur enters, and as the usual stories go, they bump into each other. There's a flurry of apologies before Arthur, flushed and embarrassed, asks her to lunch--as an apology, of course. She tucks a lock of brown hair behind her ear and, smiling softly, accepts. 

No one's very surprised when, 18 months later, Arthur proposes. (Mithian, smiling sofly, says yes.)

They get married in Ealdor where, strangely enough, Mithian has lived her entire life. It's a warm summer day, and later Arthur will deny profusely that he cried when she entered the church. (Gwaine gets it on camera and will gleefully show it to anyone who asks.)

Occasionally, Arthur thinks of Merlin. He thinks of Merlin who, if the newspapers are anything to go by (they aren't) has become a bit of a social activist. (One of Camelot's newspapers calls Merlin a terrorist, and Arthur has to laugh at that.) When Merlin comes out as Emrys after being seen (allegedly) with a well known, powerful sorercess on his arm, Arthur isn't all that shocked.

(A couple years after Arthur's wedding, they run into each other at one of Mordred's recitals. It's stilted and awkward after so long without speaking, and Arthur knows they're both relieved when Morgana reappears holding a flute of champagne and spirits Merlin away into the crowd.) 

And when Uther  retires from King Publishing, Arthur surprises everyone (except Merlin and _maybe_ Morgana) by stepping in to take his place. 

After a while, he stops thinking about Merlin. He lives happily with Mithian and somehow manages to stay on good terms with both his father and Morgana. 

But sometimes,  _sometimes,_ he hears the soft chords of a familiar piece, thinks of dark hair and eyes glowing gold, and knows he wouldn't change any of it for the world. 

 

**Author's Note:**

>  **Disclaimer:** Merlin is owned by BBC and Shine. The musical pieces mentioned in this fic belong to their respective composers and, according to IMSLP, are public domain. The films mentioned also aren’t owned by me, even in DVD form.


End file.
